Apple Pie and Broken Shoes
by Butterfly Conlon
Summary: When Spot Conlon meets Darby Rockwell, he knows his skirt-chasing days are over. But the problem is, Darby's father is one of the most powerful men in New York. Will their stautses (and and pending marriage) spell doom for their relationship?(FINISHED)
1. Chapter One

Note From Author: I worked on these chapters forever trying to revamp them. I hope they are better! Um, please read and review! I love reviews! They make me really happy! Disclaimer: The usual, I do not own the Newsies (can only cross my fingers)--the lovely folks at Disney do. I own Darby Rockwell, David Van Wyck, Katrina Van Witt, John and Ava Rockwell, and any other characters that do not appear in Newsies. Enjoy…..  
  
APPLE PIE AND BROKEN SHOES  
  
CHAPTER ONE  
  
Ways to kill David Van Wyck: One, I could hire a very intimidating thug to maul his little bottom to smithereens, or Two, I could just have an intelligent conversation with him.  
  
Darby Rockwell decided that the better way of killing David Van Wyck would be the second plan. The poor little boy was sure to drown in an intelligent conversation.  
  
Darby, daintily crossing her ankles and straightening herself against the hard chair, cheerfully said, "David, my isn't this a piquant repast we are having?"  
  
David's dark brown eyes interlocked with Darby's and he stopped the picking of his teeth with his salad fork. "Darby, I know you like to show off your French lessons, but please stop."  
  
To anyone else, this remark from David Van Wyck may have seemed like a mere ruse, but to Darby is was a showing of his true stupidity. She had to put her gloved hand to her mouth to stifle her giggles.  
  
She watched as he sat down his salad fork and picked up one of the sterling silver spoons to check his reflection in.  
  
"You look fine, David," Darby said sarcastically.  
  
David, very smug as always, replied, "I know, Darby girl, I know."  
  
At this, she once again felt his calf find its way to her leg and start the rubbing of it again.  
  
Darby groaned and kicked his leg away with the heel of one shoe from the pair of fantastically expensive heels she wore.  
  
David, not getting the point, leaned in closer to her, whispering in her ear. "Just think, Darby girl, in less than two years we'll be married, and you'll be impregnated with David Van Wyck, Jr."  
  
Darby swore she felt his tongue in her ear for s split second. She felt utterly sickened by that statement. "I will never be betrothed to you, you utterly nauseating, odious..."  
  
Her string of oaths was cut short by Mrs. Van Wyck's cooing of: "Oh, Ava, look how utterly in love they look! Just wait until they can marry, and Davey can follow in the footsteps of his father as mayor!"  
  
Both Mrs. Van Wyck's and Mrs. Rockwell's sickeningly happy gazes locked on Darby and David, who was grinning his widest and had put his arm around Darby, pulling her seat closer to his.  
  
Mrs. Van Wyck nudged her husband, Robert, who sat beside her. "Toast! Toast!" she whispered, pointing to the pair of future socialites.  
  
Darby jumped in her seat. "Oh, no, please, Mayor Van Wyck, please don't give another speech..."  
  
But it was too late. The mayor had already rose out of his seat, pushing his chair back. He raised his crystal wineglass and banged the edge of it with a spoon. Silence fell as every eye in the room fell on the smiling mayor. "Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to make toast to a very happy pair, indeed, Darby and David..."  
  
Darby groaned and put her gloved hand on her forehead, hiding her face, David's heavy arm still around her all the same.  
  
And Darby Rockwell wondered why she despised her mother's dinner parties so. It all fell under the same pattern: her mother would throw one more than once or twice during the week, inviting all of New York's finest, including the mayor of New York City, Robert Van Wyck, his wife, and son David. Although her mother was a very social woman and loved to show off her fine china and even finer dresses, a tacit reason lay behind it: David Van Wyck.  
  
The Van Wycks were wealthy and the Rockwells even wealthier. The union of their offspring would mean a staggering amount of money. Darby already knew she had a sealed fate of marrying the extremely nauseating David Van Wyck. He knew it, too, and at every dinner party when he sat beside Darby, he would bring it up. As he had brought it up tonight in the fact of Darby carrying his child one day. She had shuttered. Darby would never touch David with a ten-foot stick, nonetheless have his child! It was so unjust that she was going to have to spend the rest of her days with this boar of a man. Having his offspring, tending his house, massaging his sweaty feet after a hard days work at the office...  
  
"Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to make a toast to a very happy pair, indeed, Darby and David..."  
  
Random coos came from the guests, making Darby want to regurgitate the wonderful lamb's leg she had just consumed.  
  
"It isn't very often that you find a pair of human beings that know that they want to spend the rest of their life together. But that's a different story for Davey and Darby. They know what they want, and they know they love each other. When my Davey follows in my footsteps as mayor, Darby will be there every waking moment for him. She will devote her life to him and raise his children. Yes, I give a toast to the future Mr. and Mrs. David Van Wyck."  
  
"To the future Mr. and Mrs. David Van Wyck." Every glass was lifted in the room to the pair and Darby didn't even want to see the look on David's smug face.  
  
After a few moments, the random conversations had broken out amongst the guests again and the toast was all but forgotten. Darby turned her gaze to David, whose face was only inches from hers.  
  
Her blue eyes flashed with a fire. "Get your vile arm off me, David Van Wyck!" she hissed under her breath.  
  
That caused his smile to break out wider as he whispered, his hot breath filling ear, "And put it where, Darby girl?"  
  
Darby groaned and in one quick motion, shook off his grasp and moved her chair as far as possible away from David as she could.  
  
This caught her mother's attention who looked up from her conversation with Mrs. Van Wyck. "Darby dear, what are you doing?"  
  
Darby knew her mother could see the gap in seating between she and the person she was to marry. Her gaze flickered between David and her mother. She needed an excuse. "Uh, nothing, mother, quite nothing at all. I just have to use the ladies room."  
  
Darby rose from her chair and prepared to push it in when she caught the look on her mother's face. She looked utterly horrified.  
  
"Darby!" she whispered incredulously. "Do not say such things like that in front of guests!"  
  
With that, Darby could hear David burst into snickers and Mrs. Van Wyck start to fan her face.  
  
Darby rolled her eyes and quickly pushed her chair in, spinning on her heel and exiting the dining hall, David's laughter ringing in her ears.  
  
Infuriated, Darby stormed through the winding hallways of her father's immense palace until she reached the bathroom. And the bathroom should not have even been called a bathroom for it was far too large and far too ornate to be called one.  
  
She strode over to the row of sinks and gazed into the looking glass that hung before her.  
  
Darby couldn't even recognize who she was. Her blonde curls were piled high upon her head in some fancy updo that had taken four plus hours to complete. She was almost suffocating because of the constricting girdle she was forced to fit her already svelte figure in under her pale blue dress.  
  
She couldn't even recognize the sixteen year old she was under all the make up that resembled a whore's more than a prim and proper lady's.  
  
She felt the tears start to well in the creases of her eyes.  
  
"It's not fair!" she cried in a shaky voice. "It's absolutely not fair! Why can I not live my life the way I want it? Why must I sit through mother's pointless dinner parties with that vile man wrapped around me? That vile man I know that I am going to marry! Is my life not worth more than that? Why must I become Mrs. David Van Wyck? Why me? Oh how I wish I could escape all this! I'd rather be the daughter of a poor beggar man and be free than be the daughter of John Rockwell and be held prisoner in this fortress!"  
  
In all her fury, Darby balled up her fist and slammed it against the mirror, causing a rather giant crack to appear. The pain of the impact just caused her tears to be bitterer. She collapsed against the sink, trying to support herself.  
  
Darby was hysterical for a good ten minutes before she heard a faint knock on the door and her mother's clear voice: "Darby dear, are you still in there?"  
  
"What is it, mother?" she gritted, wiping her nose on the back of her hand—a very unladylike thing to do, but oh well, she did not have a handkerchief on hand.  
  
"Oh, Darby dear, we all had though you had had an accident!" her mother's worried voice floated through the door.  
  
Darby bitterly shook her head. "No, mother, I did NOT have an accident!"  
  
"Then hurry up, Darby dear!" her mother's voice responded. "David has a surprise for you."  
  
Darby rolled her eyes. "Oh, does he, mother? Well, it can just wait!"  
  
"Oh, pish posh, dear! Of course it can't! Now get your little fanny out there as quickly as you can and join us at the table again!" She listened as the clicking of her mother's heels got fainter and fainter until they altogether disappeared.  
  
Darby shook her head and cast her eyes to her reflection once again. Most of her eye make up had run off with the tears.  
  
"Good riddance!" she cried, as she took a tissue and wiped away the last remains of the heavy make up, letting her true self show through.  
  
"I wonder what little Davey's surprise is," she murmured. Then a sly grin crossed her face. "Maybe he's going to say that he is enlisting in the Navy. I can see it now: 'It was so tragic, Miss Rockwell, but his boat went down!' 'Oh, poor Davey!' I would cry! 'He was such a noble and kind man! It is a pity how he went down!'" She paused a moment. "Or maybe he's going to reveal his true self to us—that he is Satan in disguise."  
  
She sighed and locked gazes with her reflection's. "Well, Darby girl, we best see what Davey boy wants from us."  
  
With that, she turned around and exited the bathroom, not looking back at the looking glass.  
  
When Darby returned to the dining hall, she found that the servants were placing the apple pies that Mrs. Marks had baked onto the table—the very best apple pies in the world.  
  
Unable to control herself, Darby picked up her pace and returned to her seat, plopping down and moving closer to the table. She reached, mouth watering, for a slice of the steaming pie when her mother stopped her. "Not yet, Darby dear. As I told you, David has a surprise."  
  
She looked up and caught her mother's gaze, a gaze she knew which meant trouble. Her mother saved that look for sentimental occasions such as when Darby's sister Olga was wed or when Olga's daughter was born. She knew she was in trouble, and she sure hoped this surprise had nothing to do with weddings or babies.  
  
Reluctantly, she turned her head to find David's chair was facing her. David was slouching in it, fumbling with something in his hand, and his father stood with one hand on his son's shoulder and one on the back of the chair. He stood proud and tall.  
  
Darby really knew she was in trouble.  
  
A couple at the end of the table must have grown restless, and started a conversation between them, for Mrs. Van Wyck shooshed them and, her eyes sickeningly happy, turned to David and said, "Go on, sweetheart, go on."  
  
Darby let her gaze flicker from Mrs. Van Wyck to David. He still sat slouching and fumbling the object in his hands.  
  
Mr. Van Wyck, a forced smile on his face, quickly stamped on his son's foot. "Come on, David," he gritted.  
  
David looked back at his father, a look of over exaggerated pain crossing his face. "Owh, Father, that hurt!"  
  
"Just do it," Mr. Van Wyck said in a soft singsong voice.  
  
Reluctantly, David sighed and started to slide off his chair.  
  
The excitement must have been too much for Mrs. Van Wyck because she jumped in her seat. "Oh, he's doing it!" she squealed, before clapping her hands together and shooshing the whole room once more.  
  
Darby felt a large pit form in her stomach as David slid to the floor and propped himself up on one knee. "Darby girl," he said, sliding her chair so it faced him.  
  
"Oh, God," Darby murmured. It was at that moment she knew her life was over. Her mother's look, Mrs. Van Wyck's excitement, it could only mean one thing, the thing she had been dreading ever since she knew she would have to commit herself to him forever—David Van Wyck was proposing to her.  
  
Darby knew she was going to have to say yes. And they would be married. She would have his offspring and become his little wifey. Clean his house and take care of his children. Oh God…  
  
"Darby girl, we've known each other for a long time…" he started, grasping her hand into his.  
  
She was only sixteen. Sixteen. And the average person lives for sixty years, and even more if they lived a healthy life. That meant spending the next fifty years with this man. Every waking hour…Where was the rat poison that was kept to kill off the rats?  
  
"And I think it's time that we just give in to what we know that's expected of us." David pulled out the box and opened it, revealing a blinding diamond engagement ring. "So what do you say, Darby girl?" She saw the utter smugness reenter his eyes. "Marry me, will you Darby Lynn Rockwell?"  
  
Darby, in a state of shock, could hear the coos uttered from the guests and the sound of Mrs. Van Wyck and her mother blowing their noses.  
  
She looked David in the eye. "Commit forever?"  
  
David nodded. "Yes, Darby girl, forever. You and I as Mayor David and Mrs. Darby Van Wyck. And of course David Junior and the other seven children we will have."  
  
She felt herself fantastically nauseated. "I'm only sixteen," she murmured. "Have children, now?"  
  
David grinned and, whispering in her ear, said, "We can maybe start on that, Darby girl after the party." His hand then wrapped around her calf and was quickly gone.  
  
Darby stared into his proud eyes, pondering how such a man could be that vile. "Stand up, David Van Wyck, and I will tell you my answer." She rose from her seat.  
  
"Oh, she's going to say yes!" Mrs. Van Wyck cried.  
  
David stood, waiting for his answer, his arrogant eyes boring into hers.  
  
"Well, David Van Wyck, here is my answer."  
  
Everyone's eyes were so focused on David and his Darby that they didn't see Darby's hand slip to the table and under the apple pie Mrs. Marks had baked.  
  
"And my answer is," she started, fondling the pie, "This!"  
  
In one quick motion, Darby heaved the pie directly at David, causing it to land plum on his face.  
  
That wasn't quite the answer that the guests had expected, so the initial reaction was silence falling over the room, every mouth in the room gaped.  
  
David quickly rubbed the pie out of his eyes.  
  
"My answer is no, you hideous man! I would rather hang myself than be wed to you!" Darby screeched spinning sharply on her heel and storming out of the dining hall. But, before she exited, she broke one of the heels of her fantastically expensive shoes, causing her to trip.  
  
Infuriated, Darby kicked her leg as high in the air as physically possible, causing the broken shoe to land in a bowl of her mother's punch that lay on the table, splashing a few of the guests.  
  
Darby heard her father's words as she thundered out of his palace. "Don't you dare show your face here again, Darby Rockwell!" 


	2. Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO  
  
Darby Rockwell didn't even notice as she almost knocked over one of the butlers as she tore through the winding hallways to the receiving room, and finally out the sizeable doors where December's blanket of cold hit her like a thousand icicles, straight to the marrow of her bone.  
  
Yet, Darby didn't even feel the effect of the searing cold.  
  
A feverish rush ran through her, causing her to be flushed and red in the cheeks at the same time. Her breathing grew more rapid and heavy.  
  
And she didn't even care that it was beginning to snow, and that she, Darby Rockwell daughter of John Rockwell all-powerful attorney, was walking down a street in Brooklyn at night alone in a flimsy dress and one shoe, her lone heel clicking on the frigid pavement.  
  
A wave of giddiness surge through her. She felt the laughter start from the depths of her and work its way up her throat and finally out her lips.  
  
"Ha ha!" she gleefully cried. "You actually did it Darby. You did it."  
  
Darby Rockwell had been dooming that moment that occurred back inside—the rank David Van Wyck being forced down on his knee and presenting her with the every so lovely engagement ring that with one slip on the finger and one little word would make her painfully his forever.  
  
She had always pondered, when the time finally came, how she would react. Would she say no, run out of the house, and be free forever? Or would she say yes, obeying her parents and doing what was expected of her, and conforming to being the up and coming mayor of New York City's little wife, stifled in a world of parties and pinchbeck socialites.  
  
Saying yes of course would have sealed her fate. She had always felt like a princess trapped inside a castle ruled over by her wicked step parents (for the sake of fantasy she regarded her parents as her stepparents.) A princess destined to marry the horrid behemoth. A princess who waited on pins and needles every waking moment for her prince to come and sweep her off her feet and rescue her.  
  
So far, that prince had not made an appearance.  
  
Though still, Darby was truly surprised by her audacity. She had always concluded that she would say yes to David, he would slip the ring on her finger, their mothers would cry and their fathers congratulate each other on the spectacular amount of capital they had just earned through this union, and right then and there her life as she knew it would come to term.  
  
But it hadn't.  
  
She had actually denied the behemoth her hand and flitted out of her evil stepparent's castle.  
  
She was free. Free to do what ever the hell she wanted.  
  
Darby finally rebounded back to reality and took her first inhalation of freedom.  
  
Instead, "Godamnit, it's cold out!" came from her lips.  
  
Freedom sure was chillsome.  
  
The glacial weather soon overcame Darby in the form of convulsions and chattering teeth.  
  
But Darby never slowed her pace, only wrapped her arms around her, an attempt to salvage what warmth remained. "Why does it have to be so goddamn cold out?" she murmured.  
  
Darby knew her mother's hair would curl if she heard the language that her prim and proper daughter was using now. Darby had learned all the expletives she knew from the one she considered her only and dearest friend in the world, Katrina Van Witt. Although the Van Witts themselves were wealthy, Katrina was known to have a passion for the lower class options in Brooklyn, particularly, in one instance having a fling with a—shudder-- newsboy.  
  
Darby finally became aware of the fact only one heel was a hindrance to her walking. "Goddamn heel!" she hissed, raising her ankle in reach of her arm, undoing the buckling, and pitching the shoe to the side.  
  
And she trudged on, her barren feet making a slight pitter-patter sound against the cold cement.  
  
Second thoughts were starting to creep up into the back of Darby's mind. The atmosphere Brooklyn took on was staring to get to her. No longer were there the plush residences of Main Street, but more run down type shanties.  
  
And she was walking solely by herself in a run-down area of Brooklyn in the fledgling night, with only the snowflakes for companions.  
  
Darby observed the setting around her, and felt panic suddenly set in.  
  
What the hell had she been thinking? That a little rich girl could just run away from home and fend for herself out in the real world?  
  
And, plus, she was chilled to the bone and her feet numb from the searing cold of the pavement.  
  
Darby looked around once more. Not a soul in sight.  
  
"What the hell is this?" she said in a shaky voice. "This is damn New York, not outer space! Where is everyone?"  
  
But Darby could no answer that question.  
  
She felt the lump form in her throat and the tears from in the creases of her eyes, slowly working their way down her cheeks, as her teeth chattered and the shivers found their way down her backbone.  
  
Gazing around, she found that some type of dark bricked apartment loomed to her left. In front of that, was planted a rather warped green bench, which sagged unhappily to one side.  
  
Wrapping her arms more tightly around her waist, Darby rushed over to the bench. She sat, with her knees pulled close and buried her face in to them, knowing know her fate was that she was either going to turn into an ice cube or be snatched by some unknown assailant that in the end wold demand ransom from her parents in return for her safe return.  
  
All the while she sat there, thinking of even more unfavorable scenarios that were bound to happen to her, she didn't even hear the crunching of the snow and the grumbles emitted from the boy, the boy in the threadbare jacket, derby cap pulled low over ears, hands jammed in pockets, and cheeks stained red from the cold.  
  
But how could she see him, breath visible in the air before it evaporated and head down to the ground, as he heard her bewail her heart out? And that, causing his grumbles to cease and to hoist up his head, his glittering green eyes falling upon Darby, to him looking nothing more than a pile of shaking blonde curls and pale blue fabric.  
  
The boy, his interest struck by Darby, made his way over to the bench. He raised an eyebrow and curiosity invaded his eyes, as he halted behind the back of the bench.  
  
Darby's wails only got more audible, on account of she knew she would never see her family again and would have to live her life as some perverse man's slave.  
  
A look of amusement crossed the boy's face, and he sat on the edge of the bench, a great space between he and the sobbing girl.  
  
He gazed at her, entertained in a wondrous way by her not knowing of his presence, his chin resting on his fist.  
  
He finally cleared his throat.  
  
Darby's wails immediately caught in her throat. She ever so slowly raised her head—and saw the boy.  
  
Her high-pitched scream ruptured the air, causing the boy to let out a cry of surprise and fall off the bench and onto the snow laded sidewalk and Darby to hop to her feet on the bench.  
  
The boy collected himself, shaking his head to rid himself of the bursting stars he saw. He grasped the seat of the bench and pulled himself into a sitting position, seeing Darby frozen on the bench, her expression that of hysteria.  
  
As he helped himself to his feet, their eyes still locked, as Darby screamed. "Don't kill me! Please don't kill me! I have money! Money!"  
  
An amused smile crossed the boy's lips, as he made his way round the front of the bench and stood directly in front of Darby, who stood on the bench looking at him with such an expression of fright as though it were Judgement Day and she herself had just been sentenced to a lifetime in Hell.  
  
Darby's eyes flooded with fear. "Oh, please don't murder me! Please don't! My father has money! If..if you do kill me, he will search for you and find you and then, boy, will it be curtains for you, sir!"  
  
The boy tried to contain his smile as his hand moved for his back pocket.  
  
In a gasp, Darby drew her hands to her mouth. "Oh, dear God, he has a knife!"  
  
As the boy clasped the object he harbored in his back pocket, Darby fell to her knees, clasping her hands together. "Dear God, I have been good! I attended mass every Sunday like a good Christian with Mother and Father. I said my prayers and was never selfish…"  
  
It took all the will power the boy had to stifle his laughter as he clasped his slingshot and in one quick motion and pointed it at Darby, as if ready to fire at her.  
  
Darby let out a scream and leapt off the bench. She would have sprinted away of the boy hadn't grabbed her upper arm. She turned to face him, her eyes falling on the slingshot.  
  
"I'll scream! I'll scream if you even try! They will hear me!" she pointed to the apartment like building behind her, with a single golden light emitted from one of the window.  
  
This time, the boy wasn't successful in covering it. He let go of Darby and fell to the ground, being he was so consumed by howls of laughter.  
  
Instead of escaping, Darby stood bemused, her head tilted gazing at the boy incredulously.  
  
She couldn't take it anymore. "For God's sake, what is so goddamn funny?"  
  
The boy looked at her, his eyes glistening. "You…you…you…"  
  
"What?" Darby snapped, taking the hand that did not hold the slingshot, and pulling him in one quick jerk to his feet.  
  
"You t'ought dat dey would hear ya in dere?" he asked, thumbing over his shoulder at the building.  
  
Darby glanced at the building and then back to the hysterical boy. "Yes!" she cried.  
  
She boy shook his head. "Yeah, right!"  
  
Darby fixated her hands on her hips. "Yes, they would, sir! If a young lady was screaming bloody murder outside, then those residing inside would surely come to her rescue!"  
  
The boy shook his head again as his laughter finally subsided. "Goil, dat dere is one of da most populah brothels in Brooklyn. Ya really t'ink dat dose men gonna run down ta ya rescue when dey up dere knockin' boots?"  
  
Darby's mouth gaped as her gaze snapped to the brothel, unbelieving. She shook her head as she turned once again to the boy. "A bordello?"  
  
He nodded. "Yeah, a whorehouse, a brothel, a bordello, whatevah da hell ya wanna call it."  
  
  
  
Darby took one more look over her shoulder at the brothel and then back at the boy. Seeing the snow clung to him made her feel a stab of unbearable coldness once again. The shivers and chattering of the teeth overtook her once more.  
  
Disregarding the horrid boy, she once again wrapped her arms around her waist and, keeping her head low, trudged on in the direction of her house. After a few paces she turned around, locking eyes with the boy still standing by the bench.  
  
"You could not have kill me with that pitiful slingshot," she sniffed, once again turning and quickening her pace, a strong craving overtaking her to be in her goose-down bed.  
  
As if on cue, Darby heard a whizzing noise, as if something was in flight over her head.  
  
Her blue eyes wide, she swirled around, to see the boy behind the thin veil of newly fallen snowflakes, the slingshot in front of his face, one eye narrowed and the other glimmering with determination. The elastic piece of the slingshot was feeling the after effects of the object he had just let zing through the air.  
  
"You could have killed me!" Darby screeched.  
  
The boy casually replaced the slingshot in his back pocket, and strode past Darby in a smug, simply stating, "Point proven."  
  
Darby quickly caught up with him. "Jesus, you act like you are God's gift to earth."  
  
The boy turned to her, a lopsided grin forming on his face. "Can I ax ya a question?"  
  
"What?" Darby snapped.  
  
"Why ya walkin' dis kinda weathah wit out any shoes?"  
  
Darby halted and looked down at her feet. They had turned blue.  
  
She once again caught up to the boy. "That, sir, is none of your business whether I wish to walk in the snow without any footwear or not."  
  
The boy looked amused by her use of wording. "So ya a rich goil, I take it?"  
  
Darby was offended. "And how do you conclude that?"  
  
"Simple," he stated. "All normal people in New Yawk talk wit an accent. It's only da richies dat can 'fford some poisin ta teach 'em not ta tawk wit da accent."  
  
Darby shook her head. "I did not understand one word you just uttered, sir."  
  
The boy let out a laugh. "Yeah, well everyone else I'se met does. And will ya stop callin' me sir? Most people call me God."  
  
It took a moment for Darby to get his understatement. "Oh, you are clever. Oh, so clever. Yes, I could tell you were God in the way you walk. You think that you are so much better than other beings."  
  
The boy, pulling his cap down lower over his ears, snorted. "Right. And I'se didn't undahstand a woid you jist said dere. So we'se even. And da name's Spot."  
  
Darby looked incredulously at this boy who insisted his name was Spot. "Spot?" she asked, before bursting out into giggles. "Spot? What the hell kind of name is Spot?"  
  
Darby knew she had struck his temper by the way his whole face took on the shade of scarlet that the cold had turned his cheeks. "Oh, yeah? And what's ya name."  
  
"Miss Darby Rockwell," she replied.  
  
Now it was his turn to laugh. "Miss Dahby Rockwell? Now I'se know ya a rich bitch."  
  
"A rich bitch!" Darby exclaimed. "How dare you insult me, you miscreant!"  
  
The boy let out a laugh. "I don't know what da hell miscr…bla bla means, but I take it is means somet'ing like son of a bitch?"  
  
Darby nodded. "Precisely!"  
  
As they walked, Darby didn't even notice that the once run down area of Brooklyn she had been in was now turning into the posh quarters she was used to.  
  
"So, tell me dis, Miss Dahby Rockwell, why's a rich goil like you cryin' 'er eyes out in front of a brothel wit out any shoes on?" Spot asked.  
  
Darby was taken aback by his question. "That's personal, sir. I will not give that out…"  
  
"I'll give ya me shoes and jacket if ya tell me why?"  
  
Darby looked over at Spot, almost jumping at the prospect of having shoes to protect her feet from the cold once more. "Really?"  
  
He nodded.  
  
"Alright!"  
  
After the exchange was made, Darby felt a steep increase in the warmth she felt, even though the jacket was moth eaten and the shoes a few sizes too big.  
  
"I am running away from home," she stated.  
  
Spot locked gazes with her and fell into stitches.  
  
"What is it?" Darby snapped.  
  
"A rich goil like you, runnin' away from home?" he asked incredulously.  
  
Darby felt deeply offended. "Yes, I am running away from home. You don't know what it's like to me. The same repetitiveness everyday. Dinner parties upon dinner parties upon goddamn dinner parties. It's horrid! I…I want to be free."  
  
Spot took on a serious tone. "Well, goil, I'd rathah be in ya shoes and ya can be in mine."  
  
"But I am in your's," Darby smiled.  
  
Spot grinned. "Ah, ya know what I mean."  
  
Darby sincerely shook her head. "No, I don't. I wish I could be in your shoes…oh, you know what I mean. I just despise my life with such a passion. That's why I'm running away…"  
  
Spot suddenly halted. "And dat's why ya came back?"  
  
"What?" Darby cried, following his gaze to the rather tall wrought-iron fence with Rockwell inscribed into it.  
  
She turned back to him, her eyes wide. "How did you know?"  
  
Spot shrugged. "I'se know me way 'round Brooklyn. I know dat Main Street is where all da richies live. And da woid Rockwell written on da gate sorta gave it away."  
  
Suddenly, Darby felt a surge of emotions inside of her. With all of her, she did not want to step inside those gates to find the scene awaiting her. Then again, she could just pass right by the gates and never look back. And end up what? A sobbing, helpless heap on a bench in front of a bordello. And perhaps she wouldn't be lucky enough to have another Spot help her out.  
  
Her gaze interlocked with his fiery green eyes once more. "Well, I guess I better get inside. Mother and Father must be worried sick about me."  
  
Spot smiled and nodded.  
  
But Darby didn't want to let this mysterious boy go. "Um, I have to say thank you. I behaved so rashly, thinking that a rich girl could ever survive on her own."  
  
His eyes glistened. "Don't evah say dat. If ya evah do woik up da noive ta be on ya own, ax foah Spot."  
  
Darby bit her lower lip and grinned. "Yeah. I will be sure to do that. Well, it's been nice meeting you Spot…"  
  
"Conlon."  
  
"Pardon?"  
  
"Spot Conlon. Dat's me name."  
  
"Oh, right," Darby replied, her cheeks flaming up. "It's been grand meeting you, Spot Conlon." She held out her hand.  
  
Instinctively, Spot spit in his hand and went to clasp Darby's, when she pulled back, disgusted.  
  
"What?" he asked innocently.  
  
"You spit in your hand!" Darby cried.  
  
A grin overtook his face. "Oh, right. Well, dat's da way we shake hands, dose of us dat speak wit a New Yawk accent."  
  
She caught the challenge in his eyes, and surprised him (and herself), by spitting in her own hand and shaking his.  
  
For a moment, Darby and Spot stood in silence, with only the evr so slight howl of the wind in their ears.  
  
"Well," Darby said at last. "I want to thank you again, Spot Conlon. And here are your shoes and coat."  
  
She shucked off his articles of clothing and handed them to Spot, who eagerly reapplied them.  
  
They stood, Darby's feet now freezing on the searing pavement, their gazes interlocked.  
  
"You better be goin'," Spot said at last.  
  
"Right," Darby smiled. "Well, goodbye."  
  
"G'bye," Spot replied.  
  
With that, Darby spun on her heel, and with one flick of the wrist, opened the wrought-iron gate.  
  
As she scurried back to her awaiting father and mother quickly on tip toes, all Darby could think about is how she had lost. She would have to be wed to the behemoth and stay trapped in her evil stepparent's castle forever. Forever waiting the nonexistent prince to sweep her off her feet and rescue her.  
  
What Darby Rockwell didn't realize was, that through all the complications, her prince had shown his face and would show it again, and sweep her off her feet he would indeed. 


	3. Chapter Three

Note From Author: I know this chapter may be rather short, so I am deciding whether I should add to it or not…Anyway, thank you for the reviews so far! They make me feel loved…lol. Please R and R. Thanks. Enjoy…  
  
CHAPTER THREE  
  
To mostly everyone, Katrina Van Witt resembled a Leprechaun. She was rather on the short-side, with long tangles of fiery dark red hair, and burning green eyes.  
  
And she quite possibly could be one, too. For her parents had emigrated from Ireland only thirteen years before. The Van Witts had been dirt poor when they reached America. But, as it so happened, Michael Van Witt by chance while digging one day found a rather large nugget of gold. That in a nutshell was the Van Witts' story of the transformation from rags to riches.  
  
The Van Witts were often regarded haughtily by the established wealth in New York City as 'new money.' Even John and Ava Rockwell called them 'new money' behind their backs, and they were supposed to be good friends with them. But, one way or another, Darby could careless if the Van Witts were new money or old money or had no money—Katrina Van Witt would remain her one true friend no matter what.  
  
At the current moment, Katrina resembled a rather wrathful Leprechaun.  
  
"What do you mean they won't let you out of the house?" she cried in a melodic Irish accent.  
  
Darby let out an exasperated sigh and fell back against the plush chair. "I told you, Kat, I'm not allowed out of the damn house to go anywhere, anywhere, until I conduct a sincere apology to David Van Wyck."  
  
Katrina, arms crossed over her chest, began to pace the room, her green dress swishing behind her, stopping ever so sporadically to look Darby in the eye. "But this is an outrage, Darby! You did nothing wrong! You simply stood up for yourself!" She exhaled, falling beside Darby in the plush chair's mate. Their gazes locked.  
  
"For Christ's sake, Darby," she said wearily. "It's almost the dawn of the twentieth century. More women have to stand up for themselves if they want to be respected. It's not fair. You stood up for yourself, and where did it get you?"  
  
"Nowhere," they glumly said in unison.  
  
Both girls fell silent, causing Darby's mind to replay what had happened the previous night.  
  
Darby had known that what faced her would be a hideous mess, but, as it turned out, it wasn't all that hideous.  
  
She had been seated in the receiving room, still shivering in her pale blue dress and her fantastically expensive heels anywhere but on her feet.  
  
Her father had paced the room, face bright red, shouting how this would be the Rockwell's downfall. Due to her behavior, Darby would become some lonely old spinster who lived in a run down old shack with her thousands of cats. How he would lose all his capital.  
  
Her mother had sat in a plush chair facing Darby, crying hysterically in her prissy way, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. She sobbed that her name would be tarnished because of her daughter's audacious behavior. How Darby would have ruined all ties with the Van Wycks. How she would be talked about in her social circles as 'Ava Rockwell, the woman's whose daughter threw a pie in her fiancé's face.'  
  
Quite frankly, Darby didn't know what the hell they had babbled.  
  
As far as she was concerned, it had all been a drift of jabberwocky. In reality, Mrs. Van Wyck had fainted. Mayor Van Wyck had become insane with rage. The guests at that particular dinner party that still wanted to be invited back for more dinner parties had acted as though it were an outrage that Darby Rockwell heaved that pie at the poor David Van Wyck. But the guests that really couldn't give a damn had laughed at the whole incident.  
  
Darby had sat in the chair, watching her father, red faced, pace around the room like a mad hatter and her mother sob like a cascade, hoping at least some good had come out of her audacity. That perhaps Mayor and Mrs. Van Wyck had become so enraged with her that they had severed all ties from the Rockwells and poor ickle David would have to find some other poor, poor girl to wed.  
  
Sadly, that had not been the case.  
  
Somehow, John and Ava had bribed Robert and Christina to allow the betrothal of their children to still carry along as planned.  
  
Even after all the brashness she had displayed, Darby Rockwell in the end would end up walking down the aisle with David Van Wyck.  
  
God, life wasn't fair. But, Darby still had the priceless memory of Mrs. Marks delicious apple pie besmeared all over his smug face.  
  
No one could ever take that away.  
  
After a few moments of silence, Darby softly said, "Kat, I can't take it anymore. I am too tired of bucking my parents and the proper rules of society. I have been trying to prevent my betrothal to David Van Prick for as long as my mind will allow me to recall. And it doesn't get me any further to freedom. I am stuck. I don't want to try anymore. It's too wearisome."  
  
Katrina quickly sat up in her seat, her eyes blazing with a fire. "What the hell did you just say, Darby?"  
  
Darby wearily turned her head towards Katrina, her blue eyes dull. "Nothing, Kat."  
  
Katrina jumped out of her seat in a flash. "Darby Lynn Rockwell, how dare you say such a thing! That you are just giving up like that? That you are actually saying that you will commit yourself to that horrid David Van Prick without a fight? What happened to the Darby I know?"  
  
Darby laughed and shook her head. "Kat, you don't know what it's like to be me. You can date who ever you fancy without your parents even giving a damn. Me, I can never even be with another man for it is silently agreed that I will marry David Van Wyck. It's…never mind…"  
  
In one quick motion, Katrina grabbed Darby's wrist and pulled her to her feet. And before Darby even knew what was happening, Katrina let her hand rip across Darby's cheek.  
  
Darby stepped back, stunned, her eyes wide and her hand on her stinging cheek. "Katrina! What the HELL was that?"  
  
Katrina took a step closer to her friend, her face set seriously. "That, Darby Rockwell, was to snap you out of whatever the hell kind of state of mind you are in. You were starting to sound like your mother, a transparent little flake that doesn't care what the hell happens to her and will let men trample all over her without even opening her goddamn mouth!"  
  
Darby, her electric eyes wide in shock as she gaze at Katrina and her hand still on her cheek, erupted into hysterical tears, sinking back onto the chair. "Oh God, you're right, Kat. I'm…I'm sounding like my MOTHER!"  
  
Katrina let out a sympathetic laugh and collapsed next to Darby, wrapping her arms around her. "Darby, you are not your mother. Nor will you ever be. Don't let her rub off on you. Don't let anyone rub off on you. Don't let anyone tell you that it is your duty as a lady to marry David Van Prick, because it's not. It's is your duty as a lady to do whatever the hell you want, and that duty consists of accompanying me to a party tonight!"  
  
Darby immediately stopped her tears and gazed at Katrina's sly smile with large eyes. She shook her head.  
  
Katrina nodded her head. "Oh, yes, Darby. I will not let you stay trapped in this room with your horrid parents down below as your only company and you second guessing whether tossing that pie in that ass's face was the right thing to do or not. Which it was. But I won't have it. You have to get out."  
  
Darby sat up and blew her nose on the handkerchief that Katrina provided for her. "But, Kat, the only way I can get out of the house if I apologize to David, and like that is going to occur."  
  
"Well," Katrina mused. "You can apologize, but keep your fingers crossed."  
  
Darby had to laugh, as she threw her arms around her friend. "Oh, Kat, what would I do without you?"  
  
"Go absolutely bonkers in this world of stiff socialites," Katrina replied, smiling.  
  
All of a sudden, there was a knock at Darby's door and an Irish accent to match Katrina's inquired, "Katrina dear, are you ready? It is almost time for lunch."  
  
Katrina was arising to her feet as the door swung open and Mrs. Van Witt appeared in the doorway, looking stunning in a red dress to complement her scarlet hair and emerald eyes. And behind her, Mrs. Rockwell, looking rather tired, her brown hair pinned upon the crown of her head.  
  
"Yes, mother, I am ready!" Katrina replied. She leaned over, whispering in Darby's ear, "If all works out, meet me at the corner of Main at eight sharp!"  
  
Darby nodded as Katrina strolled over to her mothers side, making to two look rather like identical copies.  
  
"Goodbye, Darby, it was nice to see you again! Come over anytime!" Mrs. Van Witt called to Darby.  
  
Darby smiled, still perched in the chair. "Thank you, Mrs. Van Witt. Goodbye! Goodbye, Katrina!"  
  
"Goodbye, Darby," Katrina replied, throwing her a wink before she and her mother disappeared out the door.  
  
That left Darby staring into her mother's pale blue eyes. Without speaking, her mother prepared to shut the door when Darby, taking a breath, called out, "Mother, wait! I am ready to apologize!" 


	4. Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR  
  
The heels of Darby Rockwell's shoes clicked on the pavement and thrust her hands further into her muffler as she headed for the corner of Main and Jackson.  
  
"Why hello, Darby!" she heard a jovial male voice call out.  
  
She turned her head to see Mr. Firth, an elderly old chap, walking one of his little white terriers on the opposing side of the road.  
  
"Why, hello, Mr. Firth!" she called back.  
  
"Awfully chillsome weather we are having!" he laughed.  
  
"Indeed!" Darby agreed, thus ending the conversation.  
  
She lowered her head and quickened her pace—it was almost eight now.  
  
Darby finally reached the corner of Main and Jackson, without any sign of Katrina. She sighed and leaned again the sign that professed the meeting of the two streets.  
  
Darby cast her gaze up to the gray December sky. Although the snow was coming down lightly, it was still bitterly cold out due to the fierce winds—making Darby all the more thankful for the dark blue overcoat and hat (and shoes) that protected her.  
  
A feeling of silliness washing through her, Darby let her tongue just out in attempt to see if she could catch any fallen snowflakes on it.  
  
She had been having no luck, when she heard the cheerful voice ring out, "Trying to catch snowflakes on your tongue, silly Darby?"  
  
Darby lowered her head to see that Katrina was standing in front of her, wearing a dark green ensemble that only the more enhanced her eyes.  
  
She laughed. "Hello, Kat. I daresay, but I think that you are late."  
  
Katrina rolled her eyes. "Oh, hush, Darby. It's only a few minutes past eight."  
  
"But if I recall you said eight sharp…" Darby reminded.  
  
Katrina rolled her eyes yet again as she linked her arm through Darby's. "I'll get down on my knees and grovel later, Darby, but let's hurry. It's too goddamn cold out."  
  
As they began walking through the crowded sidewalk, Darby commented, "Kat, you complain about being cold in a coat and hat. I was in weather even colder than this without any damn shoes on!"  
  
A smile lit up Katrina's face. "Ah, yes, Darby! You were telling me about some bloke who gave you his shoes!"  
  
Darby felt her cheeks ignite at the memory of the mysterious Spot Conlon. "He didn't give me his shoes, Kat. I only borrowed them."  
  
"Ah, me!" Katrina swooned. "Maybe he is your knight in shining armor, Darby! The one who will rescue you from the evil David Van Prick's clutches!"  
  
Darby had to laugh along with her friend, when another thought found its way into her mind. "Kat?"  
  
"Hum?"  
  
"Where is this party we are going to anyway?"  
  
Katrina's green eyes lit up and a sly smile formed over her lips. "That, Darby, you will find out soon."  
  
"Kat…" Darby started.  
  
But Katrina just waved a finger. "Oh, shush, Darby. You will find out…"  
  
Katrina halted and broke her arm away from Darby's. She seemed to be looking around for some unknown object.  
  
Darby raised an eyebrow. "What in the world are you looking for?"  
  
Still looking around, Katrina replied, "Is this the corner of Harrison and Gulf?"  
  
Darby looked up and in the glare of the streetlight saw the sign that proclaimed Harrison Street and Gulf Way.  
  
Darby nodded. "Yes, it is, Kat. But why?"  
  
Katrina locked gazes with Darby. "Because, I was supposed to meet him here."  
  
"Him?" Darby asked incredulously.  
  
"Uh-huh," Katrina murmured, standing on tiptoes to look over people's heads. "Now where the hell could he be…Ah ha! There he is!"  
  
"There is who?" Darby asked, trying to follow her friend's gaze, yet seeing no one out of the ordinary.  
  
"Whitie, of course!" Katrina cried, waving her arms in the air as though trying to catch someone's attention.  
  
"Whitie?" Darby murmured, trying to recall anyone who she knew was named Whitie. The name did not ring a bell.  
  
"Whitie! Oh, Whitie!" Katrina cried, still standing on her tiptoes. "Over here!"  
  
All of a sudden, a rather comely boy on the tall side with a shock of blonde hair, making his way through the crowds, appeared.  
  
Darby's gaze followed him as he approached Katrina. "Katrina?"  
  
Katrina nodded and smiled, her gaze locked with his. "Yes, Whitie, it's me."  
  
Whitie finally reached Katrina's side, his cheeks stained red from the cold and his breathing heavy, but all the same a cheerful smile on his face.  
  
"Wow, Katrina, ya look…goigeous," he stammered, his breath obviously taken away.  
  
Katrina's face turned scarlet as she playfully swatted Whitie. "Oh, stop."  
  
All the while Darby stood dumbfounded.  
  
After looking into each other eyes for sometime, Katrina finally remembered Darby.  
  
"Oh!" she cried, turning towards Darby. "Whitie, I forgot. This is my friend Darby Rockwell. Darby, this is Whitie Wilson."  
  
Whitie grinned and stepped forward, offering his hand (although not spitting in it) to Darby. "How d'ya do?"  
  
Darby took his hand. "Very well, thank you. And yourself?" she replied, somewhat uncertainly.  
  
Whitie turned back to Katrina. "Well, shall we go?"  
  
Katrina nodded and beamed, and taking Whitie's arm, they began walking, Darby tagging along at Katrina's opposing side.  
  
After a few moments of walking, Katrina and Whitie were engaged in conversing about the weather, when Darby had had enough. She pulled on Katrina's collar, causing her to link on Whitie's arm to break.  
  
"What?" Katrina asked, she and Darby walking abaft Whitie.  
  
"Kat, who the hell is he?" Darby hissed, trying to keep her voice low.  
  
Katrina let out a laugh. "Whitie?"  
  
"Yes, Whitie!" Darby cried.  
  
Katrina let out a clear laugh as she once again linked arms with Whitie. "Whitie, Darby just asked me who you are."  
  
Whitie looked at Darby and smiled. "Why, I'm Whitie Wilson, ma'am."  
  
Darby rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean," she said under her breath.  
  
Katrina sighed. "Well, Darby, as you know I was on that utterly atrocious brunch date with Steve yesterday, if you recall, and it was just going awful so I left. As I was walking home, I happened to spy Whitie here selling his newspapers. I just thought him too cute of a thing to pass up, so we started talking, and he invited me to the party tonight!"  
  
Darby reeled in shock. "A newsboy?"  
  
Katrina caught her gaze. "Yes, a newsboy, Darby. Don't look so surprised!"  
  
Darby felt as though she could wring Katrina's neck right that moment. Whitie only made it worse by asking, "D'ya have a bad history with newsboys, Darby?"  
  
Darby looked at him, stammering, unable to answer his question. How could she possibly tell him that she had been raised under the teaching that all beings who weren't wealthy and in the lap of luxury were inferior? Of course, Darby didn't take this quite as literally as her parents did. Yet, the opulent Katrina Van Witt walking arm in arm with a newsboy in only a threadbare jacket and a spotted derby hat?  
  
Darby shook her head. "No, Whitie, I have no history at all. It's…"  
  
"It's just that you'd rather see me with some rich socialite on my arm instead of a newsboy?" Katrina asked.  
  
Darby grew flustered, knowing she had really put her foot in her mouth this time. "Kat…"  
  
Katrina laughed. "Oh, Darby, relax! You've been so conditioned to your mother's fancy-schmancy dinner parties with old bats who reek of formaldehyde that you don't know how to live! Money isn't everything, Darb, living life up is everything!"  
  
Darby let out a sigh. "You are such a bitch, Katrina."  
  
Katrina giggled. "I know, Darby. That's why you love me."  
  
The trio walked in silence for a few moments, before they came to the start of the Brooklyn Bridge.  
  
Darby immediately halted, looking apprehensively at the structure.  
  
Katrina stopped walking and turned around, raising an eyebrow at her friend. "Darby, what the hell is your problem?"  
  
Darby's big blue eyes grew wide. "It's the Brooklyn Bridge," she stammered, sounding idiotic.  
  
Katrina exchanged glanced with Whitie. "So?" she asked. "It's the goddamn Brooklyn Bridge. It will not bite, Darby! Stop being silly!"  
  
Darby's gaze flickered from Katrina to the bridge. She couldn't tell her of all the horrid tales her great aunt Bernice had scared her silly with, tales from over the bridge.  
  
Tales of tall dark men who stole little girls from their beds. Tales of the witches who used little girls noses in their potions. And the tale that stole the show—the carnivorous troll that resided under the bridge itself.  
  
Of course, Darby had only been a small, gullible girl when these stories had been told to her. But everyone on Main Street knew of the horrors that lurked on the other side of the Brooklyn Bridge.  
  
"Darby?" Katrina asked, waving a hand in front of Darby's face.  
  
"Huh?" Darby cried, rebounding to reality once more.  
  
"We thought we lost you there for a moment there, Darby," Katrina laughed.  
  
Darby slowly nodded.  
  
"Well come one, don't just stand there!" Katrina cried, grasping Darby's wrist and pulling her forward.  
  
But Darby halted once more. "But the troll!" she whined.  
  
Katrina cast Darby a pathetic look. "Darby, quit being a dumbass. Your Aunt Bernice was a smelly old bat who told you those stories just to scare you. There is nothing over the Brooklyn Bridge that isn't on Main Street."  
  
"Yes there is, newsboys," Darby said under her breath as a persistent—and impatient—Katrina pulled her onto the bridge.  
  
Darby kept her eyes closed the entire time they crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. She had a confession to make—it wasn't her great Aunt Bernice's tales she was desperately afraid of, it was her fear of heights.  
  
She let out a sigh of relief when they finally reached the opposing side. Darby finally opened her eyes, and what she saw made her breathing faster.  
  
They area they walked through now resembled the quarters that the bordello was housed in as she sat on the bench crying last night.  
  
A sudden, an immature, fear found it's way to the pit of Darby's stomach. That a tall dark man, witch, or troll was bound to jump out of the shadows and snatch her.  
  
She then wished that she could be at home, perched in front of the warm fire that crackled in the hearth.  
  
But that wasn't so. She was walking in an area of Brooklyn that was over the bridge with her best friend and an unknown newsboy in the dead of December.  
  
And her cravings only got stronger when Whitie announced, "Well, welcome to the party."  
  
Darby looked up and uttered a long sigh when she saw the dark gray building looming in front of her, golden light streaming through the windows and resonant commotion coming from inside the walls.  
  
And on top of that, in peeling paint the words stenciled on the building read Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House.  
  
Darby wished she had a weapon of choice so she could murder Katrina. 


	5. Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE  
  
It had been that singular, abhorrent newsboy that had caused Darby's opinion of all newsboys to spiral miserably downwards.  
  
It had been a year or so ago, and she had always relished in the fact that she got to sleep in on Saturdays (on Sunday she had to attend mass with her evil stepparents and during the week days she had to reluctantly follow her mother around on her pointless errands.)  
  
It had been after one particularly grueling Friday after one of her mother's more horrid dinner parties (she had had some ghastly encounters with David Van Prick), when Darby, with a long sigh, collapsed into her goose-down bed, ecstatic over the fact that tomorrow she could actually have a few hours of rest.  
  
Sadly, she had been mistaking.  
  
The hollers had woken her up at precisely 7:15 a.m. Darby had tried to ignore them and fall back to sleep, but she could not. They still persisted. Angrily, she had thundered to her window (the one that overlooked the front lawn of the house) in a sleepy stupor, when she saw some newsboy down below, literally blaring out the headlines in a stentorious tone.  
  
Darby had cursed the newsboy with all the oaths Katrina had taught her and tried with all her will to fall asleep once more. But with that audible yelling in her ears, it was impossible.  
  
This continued every Saturday for five weeks.  
  
Darby had finally become incredibly fed up with this, and had stormed out of the house, flimsy nightgown and hair in rollers, and down the walkway, where she stood behind the tall wrought-iron gate.  
  
"Will you please desist in your vile blarings, sir!" she had screamed.  
  
The newsboy had only looked at her and laughed, calling out the headlines even louder.  
  
With that, Darby had flicked open the gate and stood face to face with him. "What can I give you so you can shut your goddamn mouth and get the hell out of here?"  
  
Then he had explained that this was the greatest spot to find customers to buy 'papes'—Darby concluded that he meant newspapers—and that he couldn't leave unless they had all been sold.  
  
With that, Darby had thundered back inside the house, and then returned. She then gave the newsboy a handful of change in the return of the promise that he would keep his ass away from her house.  
  
The horrid newsboy had complied, and smiling, gave Darby his entire stack of newspapers.  
  
Darby had pitched them angrily to the side and hurried back to her bed.  
  
She hadn't heard the newsboy calling the headlines on Saturday mornings ever since.  
  
But, standing there with the snow now starting to come down with a vengeance, Darby felt a pit in her stomach.  
  
It was horrid enough that Katrina had duped her into coming to a party with newsboys as the majority of the guests. But a party with newsboys as the majority of the guests in their own goddamn lodging house?  
  
Come now. That was a bit too much.  
  
Katrina turned to her. "Are you going in, Darby, or are you going to stand in the doorway all night?"  
  
Darby locked eyes with Katrina, giving her a look as though to say are-you- that-much-of-an-idiot? She stepped back and shook her head.  
  
Katrina raised an eyebrow. "What, your not going in?"  
  
Darby sighed. Poor little Katrina Van Witt could be so utterly moronic sometimes.  
  
She took Katrina by the wrist and pulled her away from Whitie.  
  
"Darby, what in God's name is your problem?" Katrina asked.  
  
Darby let out a groan. "Thanks for inviting me to the grand party, Kat. But I think you are forgetting a few things."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Number one: you have a date and I do not. Second: the goddamn party is at a newsboy-lodging house!" Darby hissed.  
  
Katrina rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Darby, you can be such a child sometimes. They are newsies, Darb, it's not like they are goddamn lepers. I do have friends who are of lower classes of us, Darby, and believe it or not, they aren't that bad. I would have no doubts wagering that the party going on inside this building would be more entertaining than all the ornate dinner parties your mother had combined. You don't know how to live, Darby. Try it you might like it. Or are you going to let your bitch of a mother's shallow teachings rub off on you: all that are not rich are inferior? Turn into an Ava Rockwell clone, Darby I don't give a damn. But I am staying. And besides, if you do want to go home back to Mother and Father, who the hell is going to walk you home? Yourself?"  
  
Darby was left speechless at her friend's audacious speech once more. She didn't know whether to cry, punch Katrina, or laugh at her silliness.  
  
A smile only crossed Katrina's face. "It never fails, Darby. Now come one." She grabbed Darby's wrist and once again joined Whitie, linking arms with him.  
  
Whitie locked gazes with Katrina. Grinning ear to ear, he asked, "Ready, mad'moiselle?"  
  
Katrina mock curtseyed. "Why of course."  
  
And Whitie Wilson threw open the door to the Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House.  
  
"Just mingle," Darby heard Katrina whisper into her ear before she was pushed into the center of the commotion.  
  
Darby didn't know what to be prepared for when she was so eagerly shoved inside the noisy lodging house. For one moment, she had pictured flames spurting around the parlor in the lodging house and all the newsboys to be demons themselves (well, what was such a naïve girl to think?)  
  
But, it was not Hell and the newsboys were not the spawns of Satan. Indeed, it was rowdy and plenty of commotion going on, but other than that, Darby was just too wide eyed, soaking in the surroundings, to actually consider her fear.  
  
The front door connected to the parlor, which had a rather musty theme to it. Darby knew her mother would go absolutely mad by the way a thin layer of dust covered the whole room. From the parlor, a set of stairs proceeded to the second floor, of which shadows played on the stairs, making one unable to see the end of them.  
  
Darby's gaze once again was met with the parlor, as she felt Katrina's hand press against her back pushing her forward.  
  
The parlor was littered with dozens of newsboys; the majority of them crowded around a warped, makeshift poker table that was positioned in the center of the room. Newsboys who all wore the same attire, old and dingy. But newsboys who were so utterly delicious…  
  
Two emotions collided at the same time in Darby's psyche. One, why could not so many absolutely delectable boys have been in the high class so Darby would have had a chance to meet them? And two, Darby felt positive shyness fill ever crease of her body.  
  
So many boys…she really was not used to it. And boys who were gambling, smoking, and drinking. What would her mother say if she had known that her daughter was attending such a party?  
  
"Hey, guys!" Whitie's voice rang out from the doorway.  
  
Many of the newsboys who turned their attention to their friend who just arrived had planned on just seeing he alone, not the two well-dressed ladies that he bore in front of him.  
  
A dead silence fell over the room.  
  
Darby wished she could crawl under a table—anything—to get rid of all those eyes that bore into her.  
  
"Haven't you ever seen a lady before?" Katrina's voice snippily asked from behind her.  
  
Most of the newsboys exchanged glances, ripples of murmurs broke out, and soon the volume of commotion rocketed again as the majority went back to the poker game.  
  
Darby felt relief surge through her, as she turned around to Katrina. "Thank…" she started, but halted when she saw Katrina pulling Whitie to a corner of the parlor.  
  
Darby let out a cry and rushed to Katrina's side, stopping her. "And where do you think YOU are going?" she hissed.  
  
A slick smile spread over Katrina's lips. "Whitie and I are going to get better aquatinted."  
  
Darby's unbelieving gaze flickered from Whitie back to Katrina. "And what, just leave me the here all by myself?"  
  
Katrina shrugged and nodded. "Yes."  
  
Darby's jaw dropped. "Katrina, please. Don't. I don't know anyone!"  
  
Katrina sighed. "Well, Darby girl, if you are going to be a socialite one day, then be social."  
  
With that, Katrina patted her on the shoulder, and, Darby's gaze following, tugged Whitie into the room adjoining the parlor.  
  
Leaving Darby Rockwell standing in the middle of the parlor of the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House all alone.  
  
Darby felt like she could break into hysterical sobs right then and there. In the lodging house with rowdy newsboys and with her best friend in another room with one of those newsboys was too much to handle.  
  
She felt the lump grow in her throat and the spiteful tears well in her eyes. Fighting to keep them back, Darby retired to one of the chairs that lined the wall—one of the chairs as far away as the newsboys as possible.  
  
Darby hated Katrina at that moment. What a horrid bitch she had been to drag her there, minus date, just to discard her to go into a room to do God knows what with that newsboy.  
  
And Darby couldn't even walk home. God forbid she would waltz the streets of Brooklyn at night. By even thinking that, they could have her committed.  
  
No one except the loonies and the prostitutes wandered the streets of Brooklyn at night.  
  
Darby deeply sighed, a shaky sigh, fighting with all her might to keep the tears back. She stuffed her hands further into her muffler and bowed her head.  
  
She would just have to wait until Katrina was done violating Whitie so they could walk home together.  
  
Katrina you are such a bitch, Darby bitterly thought.  
  
But she couldn't hold them back.  
  
She was ready for the first tear to trickle down her cheek, when suddenly, she felt a tap on her shoulder.  
  
Darby slowly turned in her seat, head bowed. She looked up with her tear- filled ice blue eyes.  
  
And what she saw made the floor drop from underneath her. 


	6. Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX  
  
Eyes. The Armageddon that the prophets have been predicting for centuries could have been occurring at the moment, but all Darby Rockwell saw were the eyes.  
  
They rivaled her birthstone emerald studs that had been given to her as a sixteenth birthday present.  
  
Two brilliant jewels that seemed to bore into her soul and read her innermost thoughts. She felt as though she was stark under those eyes.  
  
The eyes, losing not an iota of intensity, began to clash with the background, as it began to focus. It was then when Darby let her mouth drop in disbelief.  
  
"Oh my God, it's you."  
  
Spot Conlon. The very same Spot Conlon she had met for the maiden time just a few hours shy of twenty-four ago. The very same Spot Conlon who had tried to end her life with a slingshot now stood in front of her, stripped of the winter attire he had donned the previous night.  
  
Through his lopsided grin was unbelievingness. "What da hell are you doin' here?"  
  
Darby quickly stood up, flustered, her gaze still locked on him. "Me? What am I doing here? What are you doing here, sir?"  
  
Behind her, she could hear the snickers of the newsboys that were eavesdropping on the conversation. She cocked her head around to give them a look, and then turned back to Spot.  
  
"Miss Dahby Rockwell," he grinned. "I don't t'ink it's me dat should be 'splainin why I'se here. What's a rich bitch like you'se doin' here?"  
  
Darby stepped back, offended. "Fantastic asshole!" she said breathlessly.  
  
Spot looked over her shoulder and to the newsboys that were paying heed to the parley between he and Darby.  
  
"I'se been called an asshole before and fantastic before, but nevah before a fantastic asshole!"  
  
Darby stepped back, shaking her head. "Newsboy, aren't you? I should have guessed long ago. You radiate the same despicable ignoble traits as the rest of them!"  
  
With that, she spun on her heel and dashed out of the lodging house, December's frigidness chilling the innermost of her bones.  
  
Katrina Van Witt, Spot Conlon, and those newsboys could all go to hell for all she cared. There was no way in hell that she was about to stand around in that baseborn lodging house. Let her get snatched and end up some perverse man's slave. It was better that sticking around and making happy chatter with Spot Conlon.  
  
A red fury radiated off of Darby Rockwell that would have made the Devil himself cringe in fear.  
  
The torrid wind flung itself at her full force, causing tendrils of hair to be whipped about.  
  
Darby tried her best to stabilize her hair. "Goddamn hair!" she cried. She felt like screaming at the moment. She felt the scream lodged inside her throat, practically on its knees begging her to be released.  
  
And it had its chance when Darby slipped on the patch of undetectable ice, bringing her painfully down.  
  
The scream got loose. It sliced through the air.  
  
Darby Rockwell sat, on her bottom in her good blue overcoat, pain ripping through her body, throwing a tantrum and sobbing.  
  
It was then she heard, "For Christ's sake, will ya quit ya bitchin'?"  
  
Darby spun her head around, and what she saw made her anger boil even more.  
  
Spot Conlon.  
  
Just seeing him brought about another shriek of wrath.  
  
Stuggling against the wind's strong gusts, his hands shot to his ears and his jeweled eyes became wide. "Shut your goddamn mouth!"  
  
Darby's eyes narrowed in ire as she struggled to her feet, only to be brought back down again by the ice.  
  
Falling hard on your bottom twice is not peaches and cream. It can be a rather painful experience, and this is what made Darby explode into fresh, hysterical tears.  
  
All Darby felt was a complex and overwhelming count of feelings rushing through her, the convulsions from the tears, and the brutal wind mercilessly flinging itself at her.  
  
And the pair of arms that found their way under hers, bringing her to her feet.  
  
She could feel Spot's hot breath in her ear. "Stop ya cryin."  
  
Darby spun around, only to bang noses with him for they were that close. That brought on more pain and more tears.  
  
Spot broke up into sympathetic laughter. "C'mon, stop ya cryin'."  
  
"Oh, shut-up!" she choked, struggling away from him.  
  
"Hey, where da hell are ya going?"  
  
"Home!" Darby snapped. "Away from my bitch of best friend, away from that vile lodging house, away from all those abhorrent newsboys, and away from you, the biggest asshole in the world!"  
  
His eyes sparkled. "Is it dat bad?"  
  
She stopped, mid way through a sob to stare incredulously at him, her head tilted. "Your serious, are you not?"  
  
That same lopsided grin found his lips again. "So it is, is it? But I'se not dat bad, am I, ta be called da biggest asshole in da whole woild?"  
  
Darby snorted. "Don't flatter yourself."  
  
"I'se not," Spot beamed. "I was jist tryin' ta git ya ta stop cryin', and I did."  
  
Darby locked gazes with him, her blue eyes on fire. "Why are you like that?"  
  
Spot cocked his head. "Like what?"  
  
"Like, you suffer from some condition that causes split personalities."  
  
Confusion filled his eyes.  
  
Darby shook her head. "Nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing, sir. You must be too duncical to even comprehend what I am saying. Now, let me go! I wish to go home!"  
  
With one sharp jerk, Darby pulled free of his grasp and, quite flustered, proceeded home, shivering.  
  
But Darby Rockwell could not shake Spot Conlon that effortlessly.  
  
He was soon striding along at her side. "I don't have split personalities and I was bein' truthful at da lodgin' house. Ya are a rich bitch."  
  
Darby snapped her gaze to him, her eyes glinting. "Ugh!" she growled. "Can you not see when you are not wanted?"  
  
"If I have split poisonalities, den ya have split poisinalities, too, Miss Dahby Rockwell," he replied, shaking the subject.  
  
Darby let out a shriek and halted. "I will say this once. I have been through enough strife tonight, sir, to last me a whole lifetime. My friend beguiled me into coming to this horrid party by making be believe that it would be a party of class, not a party of brass. Once there she ditches me to go do God know what with one of your newsboys in some dirty room. You make an absolute fool out of me and I have to walk home by myself at night in Brooklyn where I will probably end up getting snatched by some middle aged man looking for a jolly good time and will use me as a slave. And on top of that, it's blistering cold out and I am most likely to turn into an ice cube it I do not get captured first. My ass hurts because I fell on the ice twice and you are just infuriating me even more, so get the hell out of my way so I can go back to my conformist life of dinner parties and stupid pricks like David Van Wyck!"  
  
Spot stood dumbfounded.  
  
"Thank you!" Darby exclaimed, hurrying on her way.  
  
"Let me walk ya home," Spot asked, catching up to her.  
  
Darby shook her head. "God, please let me be. I am already worked up enough as it is."  
  
Spot shook his head. "Nah, I wouldn't want ya ta be snatched by some middle- aged man so ya could become 'is slave. I'se bettah walk ya home."  
  
It was futile for Darby to protest, to the silently agreed.  
  
The pair walked in silence, the snowflakes and chilling wind hurling down at them.  
  
"D'ya do boithdays, too? I loved ya speech," Spot stated, breaking the silence.  
  
Darby was forced to break into a laugh, as she quickly glanced at him, catching his green eyes. "No, actually I only do Christmases and Thanksgivings."  
  
"Anyone would be more thankful to have you on Thanksgiving," Spot quickly said.  
  
Darby raised an eyebrow. "I declare…"  
  
"Ya declare what?" he replied.  
  
"Was that a pass, sir?" she inquired.  
  
"A pass…on you?" Spot cried incredulously.  
  
Darby instantly became flustered. "Well, why not? What is wrong with me?"  
  
Spot's grin became wider. "Not, lemme see. Foist off, ya too hoidy toidy. And ya confusin.'"  
  
"Confusing?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"How in hell am I confusing?"  
  
"Well, take tahnight for example. When ya foist saw me in da lodgin' house, ya was all hoidy toidy. And den ya jist blew up like da woild had ended and stormed outtah dere and I didn't know what da hell ya problem was so I followed ya…"  
  
"My problem is you, sir!"  
  
"Goddamnit, goil, let me finish! And I t'ought we went ovah dis last night. Stop callin' me sir, call me Spot."  
  
Darby let out a sigh and rolled her eyes. "Alright, SPOT. Now, you may go ahead and critique my being some more."  
  
"Right…" Spot said reluctantly. "Well, anyway, when I see ya out here ya crazy! Bitchin' at me and t'rowin a hissy fit! And now here ya are, walkin' beside me and havin' a decent conversation like nuttin' even happened! What da hell gives?"  
  
Darby's mouth fell open. "Excuse me, you are the one that is…that is…that is…"  
  
"Wrong?" Spot piped in.  
  
"Right…wrong," she stammered.  
  
"How so?"  
  
"You are crude rude ruffian, and to top it off you are a newsboy. All newsboys are liars and not to mention they have fleas…"  
  
"FLEAS?" Spot cried incredulously.  
  
"Yes, fleas," she replied, stuffing her hands deeper inside her muffler. "You yell too loud when calling out those horrid headlines and wake decent folks up from a goodnight's sleep. You smell and live in baseborn living conditions. You may have gorgeous eyes, but your personality sure as hell is not gorgeous."  
  
Spot wore an expression of amusement and disbelief. "I have goigeous eyes but me poisinality ain't goigeous?"  
  
Darby became addled. "No…that's not what I meant…I was using a comparison."  
  
"A comparison?"  
  
She snapped. "Yes, a comparison, why don't you just return to your vile lodging house with your vile newsboys and continue your vile existence while leaving me the hell alone!"  
  
Disregarding Spot, Darby sped up her pace, keeping her head low to shield herself from the relentless wind's frigidness.  
  
She exhaled a sigh of relief. "I am free of him forever!"  
  
"Not yet, Miss Dahby Rockwell."  
  
Spot made her jump out of her skin. She snapped her head to find him at her side once again.  
  
"Oh God!" she cried. "What do I have to give you to go away?"  
  
That lopsided grin touched his lips once more. "Adelle left me a little oily tahnight, so maybe…"  
  
Darby let out a cry of disgust. "Adelle? Correct me if I am wrong, but Adelle is one of your little strumpets who most likely came from the bordello where we first encountered each other at last night. And you want me to do God knows what with you for you to leave me alone?"  
  
Spot broke up into laugher, swinging his arm around Darby's shoulder. "Jesus, goil, don't take me so seriously! You'se so uptight."  
  
She shook out of his hold. "The only thing uptight about me, sir…"  
  
"Spot."  
  
"…SPOT, is you! Please get your sordid arm off me!"  
  
Spot wore an expression of mock injury. "I'se hoit, Miss Dahby Rockwell, jist hoit!"  
  
Darby let out a snort, "Well, you should be."  
  
"I am, I am." He then let out an audible gasp.  
  
Darby locked gazes with him. "What?"  
  
Spot's wide emerald eyes flickered from Darby's blue overcoat to locking with her gaze. "Jiminy…"  
  
"What is it?" Darby snapped.  
  
"On da collah of ya jacket…"  
  
Panic swept through her body. "What is wrong with my jacket?"  
  
"I t'ink I see…"  
  
Darby let out schreech. "What is it? What is it?"  
  
"Jesus Christ, take ya jacket off right now!" Spot hollered.  
  
Hopping up and down, Darby quickly shucked off her rather expensive dark blue overcoat, letting it fall to the snow-covered pavement.  
  
"Is it off, is it off? What in God's name is was on me!" she wailed.  
  
Spot held up a hand, as though to silence her shrieks, and slowly walked over to her fallen coat, leaning over, as if peering at something on it.  
  
Darby immediately wrapped her arms around her, trying to salvage the warmth. "What the hell is it?" she chattered.  
  
"Hum," Spot said, seriously, shaking his head. "I was right." He picked up the jacket, locking gazes with her. "One of my fleas mustah jumped on da collah of ya jacket. I didn't want such a prim and propah lady like yaself ta catch me fleas."  
  
Darby dropped her chin, her mouth gaping. "You spectacular bastard!"  
  
Spot broke out into a grin. " I t'ink I liked fantastic asshole bettah!"  
  
The last straw had been broken for Darby. She let out an audible screech, and charged Spot.  
  
Spot let out a yelp and took off, Darby pursuing him, her heels clicking furiously against the snow-covered sidewalk.  
  
This went on for quite a few minutes, both gasping for breath, until Darby suddenly halted.  
  
So did Spot when he no longer heard the clacking of her shoes. He spun around to find Darby halted on the very edge of the Brooklyn Bridge, her chest heaving and her eyes wide.  
  
A smile lit up his face. "Hey, Miss Dahby Rockwell! Whatcha 'fraid of da Brooklyn Bridge or sumptin!" he hollered, cupping his hands around his mouth.  
  
Darby looked pathetic, her hands on her hips and fidgeting about. "Oh, do be quiet! Just because you do not suffer from a phobia of goddamn heights and can stand in the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge does not mean you must taunt me!"  
  
Spot grinned at her incredulously, as he approached her, her blue coat still in his grasp. "Ya mean ya really 'fraid of da Brooklyn Bridge?" he asked when he reached her.  
  
Darby nodded, biting her lower lip. "Yes, I have a fear of heights just as you have a fear of bathing."  
  
Spot's eyes filled with amusement. "Ooh, ya jist so clevah, Miss Dahby Rockwell. Lemme ax ya dis, how da hell did ya come ovah ta da lodgin' house wit out crossin' da Brooklyn Bridge?"  
  
"I did cross…the bridge. But I had my eyes closed. With Katrina it wasn't that bad. Now, my fear has been recognized and it's out there and I can't do it."  
  
Spot tilted his head at her, dumbfounded.  
  
Darby let out a long sigh and threw up her hands. "Never mind. Perhaps I would rather be a slave to a perverse man than cross this damn bridge. Leave me here. Someone is bound to pick me up."  
  
Spot let out a laugh and, tossing her coat over his shoulder, grabbed her wrist, pulling her forward. "Come on, goil. Close ya eyes, it's not that bad!"  
  
But Darby was stubborn like a mule and would not budge. "No!" she cried with wide eyes. "I can't cross the bridge!"  
  
"But ya gotta cross da bridge!"  
  
"No I cannot! I am afraid and the troll will get me!"  
  
Spot erupted into laughter. "Da troll?"  
  
"Yes, the troll that lives under the bridge! Please, I can't! I can't! I am deathly afraid of heights!"  
  
Spot dropped her wrist and put his index finger to his chin, as though in a deep state of thought. He shrugged. "Well, I see only one way ta resolve dis problem."  
  
"How?" Darby reluctantly asked.  
  
"Carry ya 'cross."  
  
Darby's eyes grew wide. "No!"  
  
"Yes!" Spot grinned, grabbing her wrist, and in one quick motion, slung her over his shoulder.  
  
"Put me down! Put me down! No! No! God! I hate heights! Put me down! PLEASE!" Darby cried, kicking and screaming.  
  
"Jesus Christ, goil, stop ya bitchin'! I'se won't let da troll get ya!" Spot howled.  
  
"Oh shut-up!" Darby scoffed, smacking him upside the head.  
  
"Owh!" Spot cried. "If ya don't stop dat, I'se gonna t'row ya off da side of da bridge!"  
  
"NO!!!" Darby wailed.  
  
"Jesus, goil! Don't ya know what a goddamn joke is?" Spot asked.  
  
"When are we going to get to the other side of the bridge?"  
  
"Why can't you'se see?"  
  
"I have my eyes closed, genius."  
  
"Oh, well den, we'se dere."  
  
"THANK GOD!" Darby sighed, relief flooding through her as her feet once again touched the ground.  
  
Yes, what she saw gave her a mighty shock. Spot had only carried her about three-fourths across the bridge.  
  
"Why you…" she hissed, turning towards Spot, only find he was not there.  
  
"Where are you?" she cried, only to find him waving at her from the other side of the bridge.  
  
Fury coursed through her. "Oh! I do HATE you with a passion, sir!"  
  
Darby, with eyes OPEN, was forced to cross the remainder of the Brooklyn Bridge, her infuriated glare never leaving his smug face.  
  
Relief swept through her as her feet touched the opposing side. She let out a sigh.  
  
"Good show, Miss Dahby Rockwell!" Spot cried, slapping her on the back.  
  
Darby quickly shook him off. "Do not do that to me again, sir, " she panted.  
  
"Can do, Miss," he grinned, handing out her coat.  
  
Her angry gaze still locked on him, Darby snatched the garment away, reapplying it rather quickly.  
  
After her hands had found their way back to their rightful place in the warm muffler and they had started walking, Spot asked, "So, Miss, ya said dat ya knew David Van Wyck. Granted da only Van Wyck I know is da mayah of New Yawk. Any relation?"  
  
Darby looked him straight in the eye, and burst into a high laugh. "Ha, yes, I do know David Van Wyck, and he is the mayors son. Believe it or not, he is even a more odious and atrocious being than you!"  
  
"Really? Didn't know dat was possible," Spot commented.  
  
"Sure as hell is."  
  
"How d'ya know him."  
  
"Long, long, long story," Darby replied.  
  
"Well, Miss Dahby Rockwell," Spot said, the snow starting to fall harder in the December twilight. "I'se would say dat we have all da time in da woild."  
  
Darby emitted a long sigh. "All the time in the world, sir? Just until we get to my residence."  
  
Spot cracked a smile. "Den howevah much time we have left, Miss. Anyhow, I wanna here how ya knows da mayah's son. Is 'e ya fiancée?"  
  
Darby's eyes were wide in shock as she locked gazes with him. "How did you know?"  
  
Spot was taken aback. "Ya mean he's really ya fiancée?"  
  
Darby furiously nodded.  
  
"I'se was jist guessin', dat's all. I mean I didn't know…ya really getting' married ta 'im?" he cried incredulously.  
  
Darby settled her hands into her muffler and slowly nodded. "Someday I will. I have to. It's my destiny."  
  
Spot let out a low whistle. "Some destiny."  
  
"I think not! I daresay, but I would rather be wed to a flea infested newsboy like yourself than be that awful man's wife forever!" Darby hissed.  
  
A small smile crossed Spot's face. "So, are ya gonna tell me da story or not?"  
  
Darby rolled her eyes. "I suppose…I declare! It is frigid out! I am surprised that you did not offer me your coat long ago, sir!"  
  
"Well, Miss, I'se sahrry I was so ignorant not ta give a lady such as yaself me coat. 'Sides, how would a lady like ya look in a coat like dis? Say, I can do even bettah dan dat!"  
  
Darby let out a squeal of shock as she felt Spot's arm wrap around her waist and pull her close.  
  
"I declare," she cried. "What in hell are you doing?"  
  
"Keepin' da lady warm!" he chuckled, tipping his derby hat.  
  
"Ah! Why I never," Darby outwardly protested, yet, she was not able to keep the slightest trace of pleased smile from conquering her.  
  
"Well, ya gonna start or not?"  
  
"What? Oh, yes, of course. Well, my parents—shall I say my evil stepparents—have been friends with the Van Wycks for ages…"  
  
And Darby Rockwell delved into her story, being amused by the thought about what a scandal it would be if her mother saw her now, her little daughter with some newsboy wrapped around her.  
  
Yet, quite more a scandal it would be, for Darby actually liked being in Spot Conlon's embrace, even if it was just to keep her warm. 


	7. Chapter Seven

1 CHAPTER SEVEN  
  
The day was Saturday, wonderful glorious Saturday, and Darby Rockwell could be found ever so fast asleep, breathing quietly, tucked in her goose-down bed free of mass with her evil stepparents and of tagging along with her mother on her purportless errands.  
  
While she slept, Darby exhaled and rolled onto her back, a thin smile on her lips. She must have been having the most fantastic dream, but about what I cannot say. Yet, if it was about those few extra hours of sleep, her dream was due to turn into a nightmare.  
  
"EXTRA! EXTRA! EXTRA! READ ALL BOUT IT!"  
  
The first calling did not wake Darby, neither did the second, but as they say, three's a charm.  
  
"EXTRA! EXTRA! EXTRA! BABY BORN WIT T'REE HEADS IN BROOKLYN!"  
  
Darby's dark blue eyes opened with a start.  
  
"BABY BORN WIT T'REE HEADS IN BROOKLYN! READ ALL BOUT IT!"  
  
She immediately shot up in bed, her temper boiling over. That newsboy promised never to call out those obnoxious headlines in front of her father's palace again…  
  
"EXTRA! EXTRA! EXTRA! BABY BORN WIT T'REE HEADS IN BROOKLYN!"  
  
That put Darby over the edge.  
  
"Goddamn newsboy! He said that he would never sell his hideous newspapers in front of my window again! Well, let me give him a piece of my mind!" she growled, throwing the covers off her and storming through the winding hallways.  
  
Darby yanked open the door, and in only a flimsy night gown and her hair in rollers, she padded down the sidewalk in the blistering cold and down to the wrought-iron gate, where she saw the back of a newsboy, yelling the headlines and waving his newspapers in the air.  
  
"EXTRA! EXTRA! EX…!"  
  
"WILL YOU PLEASE SHUT THE HELL UP AND GET OFF MY PROPERTY THIS VERY MINUTE BEFORE I CALL THE POLICE ON YOU FOR DISTURBING MY REST, YOU GREAT PRICK!" Darby shrieked, interrupting him mid sentence.  
  
The newsboy ceased calling the headlines, and lowered his newspaper, turning around.  
  
Darby's mouth dropped impossibly low.  
  
"Hum, you'se called me fantastic asshole, spectaculah bastard, and great prick. I t'ink I like sir better."  
  
Darby's wide gaze was on none other that Spot Conlon. Spot Conlon who now stood outside the wrought-iron fence on this very frigid Saturday morning and seeing Darby Rockwell in only a flimsy nightgown and her tresses in frumpy rollers.  
  
That lopsided smile crossed his lips and his emerald eyes flashed as he took her in, freezing behind the fence in a state of shock. "T'ree times we've met and one-thoid of da time ya haven't been wearin' shoes."  
  
Darby could only gap, her stomach churning, as she approached the gate and wrapped her hands around the bars. "What are you doing here?"  
  
Spot shrugged. "EXTRA! EXTRA! EXTRA! BABY BORN WIT T'REE HEADS IN BROOKLYN!"  
  
A man immediately stopped and bought one.  
  
"T'ank ya very much, sir." He then turned back to Darby, cupping his to his mouth to warm them and his eyes making a stark contrast with his red cheeks. "It's a good place to sell papes."  
  
Darby pressed her forehead against the bars, her emotions going haywire inside. "But here?"  
  
Spot grinned and blew into his hands once more. "Yeah, Miss. Here. Great spot. Richies have money and dey's willin' ta buy papes."  
  
That was not the answer that Darby had hoped for. "But, why, sir, directly in front of MY house?"  
  
Spot inched closer to the gate. "Nice nightgown."  
  
Darby drew away from the gate and gasp. She forgot how not properly dressed she was. Her face turned crimson.  
  
Spot burst into laugher as he called the headlines once again, calling the attention of two more customers.  
  
Darby stepped closer to the wrought-iron gate again, taking no heed to the ungodly cold. "But why HERE?"  
  
Spot turned to her, his emerald eyes only inches from hers, causing Darby's heart to race. A thin smile crossed his lips and he quickly looked down to Darby's feet and once again to her eager gaze. "Because."  
  
"Because why, sir?" Darby asked.  
  
"Because, Miss, I hoid dat hot tamale dat ya call ya best friend lives next door," he grinned.  
  
Darby backed away from the gate, utter disgust crossing her face. "Katrina?" she hissed. "How the hell do you know Katrina? You do not! Get away from my property at once, you ruffian, before I call the police on you for waking up decent folks!"  
  
With that, she spun on her heel and stormed up the sidewalk, but was stopped when she head the cry in her ear of, "Wait, Dahby, stop!"  
  
She halted and cocked her head around, to find Spot with his hands wrapped around the bars. "What do you want?" she cried.  
  
"Jist come back!" he pleaded.  
  
She felt that feeling in the pit of her stomach again, but ignored it. "Why should I?"  
  
"Because," Spot called, his eyes burning into hers, "I wanna ax ya something!"  
  
Darby spun around, not budging and inch, placing her hands on her hips. "Whatever you wish to ask of me, sir, can be done at this distance."  
  
Spot sighed. "Can ya jist come ovah to the goddamn gate?"  
  
Darby raised her chin and shook her head, causing some of the rollers to fall out of her hair and land in the snow.  
  
"Alright!" Spot called. He rolled his eyes and cupped his hands around his mouth. "I want ta know if you, uh, eat?"  
  
Darby raised an eyebrow and burst into laughter. "You, sir, want to know if I EAT?"  
  
Spot nodded, not cracking a smile.  
  
Darby's interest was struck and she went once more to the gate. "If I eat?" she incredulously asked.  
  
Spot bit his bottom lip. "Ya know, if ya eat, food…"  
  
"The last time I checked, sir, I did."  
  
"Right," Spot continued, his eyes wandering. "Well, it's jist dat dere's dis place in Brooklyn and they have food..."  
  
His jeweled gaze connected with Darby's once again, whose pulse was rushing so furiously she concluded that her veins would pop any moment. "…and dey have really good food and I wanted ta know, Miss, if ya would want to go."  
  
Darby was in such a state of shock, that she leaned forward, causing her forehead to bang against the bars with a twang. "Owh! Goddamn bars!" she hissed, locking eyes with Spot and rubbing her throbbing forehead.  
  
He looked at her with pleading eyes.  
  
A smile touched her lips. "So, you did not come here to sell your 'papes' in front of my house just because Katrina lives next door…"  
  
Spot shook his head and grinned. "Nah, Adelle canceled plans wit me and I needed a replacement."  
  
Indignation washed through Darby as she stepped back. "Why you…"  
  
Spot held up his hands. "Befoah ya call me any othah names, know dat it's jist a joke, Miss!"  
  
Darby let out a sigh and rolled her eyes.  
  
"So?" asked Spot.  
  
"So what?" Darby snapped.  
  
"Is it a date?" he inquired.  
  
"I wouldn't call it a date, sir. Just a back up since your plans with Adelle went awry," she coolly replied.  
  
"Alright," Spot grinned. "A back up it is. I'se be seein' ya at seven shahp, Miss Dahby Rockwell."  
  
"As you call it," Darby flatly said, watching Spot hoist his newspapers onto his shoulder and, with a throw of a wink in her direction, disappear down the sidewalk, yelling out, "EXTRA! EXTRA! EXTRA! BABY BORN WIT T'REE HEADS IN BROOKLYN!"  
  
Darby let out a sigh, and pressing her forehead against the bars, watched as he disappeared.  
  
When Spot became entirely engulfed by the crowds, Darby picked up her head and turned around, slowly heading up the snow covered sidewalk.  
  
Wrapping her arms around her, her mind raced but only one thing filled her brain.  
  
She was going out on a rendezvous with Spot Conlon. Spot Conlon, the dirty, rude, crude newsboy that had tried to kill her with a slingshot. That had made a fool of her countless times. She, Darby Rockwell, future socialite and daughter of prominent lawyer John Rockwell and his wife Ava, was going on a date with Spot Conlon, destitute newsboy with a moth eaten coat.  
  
A smile crossed Darby's lips as she let out a cry.  
  
And, kicking up her heels, she skipped the remainder of the sidewalk.  
  
A date with a newsboy.  
  
How in HELL was she going to get past her parents with this one?  
  
***  
  
Katrina Van Witt's deep green, and unbelieving, eyes followed Darby as she madly passed the room.  
  
"Now, let me get this straight, Darby girl. YOU, Darby Rockwell, are going out on a DATE with a NEWSBOY?"  
  
Darby, looking flushed, halted and locked gazes with Katrina. "Yes, Kat, what's so wrong with that?"  
  
Katrina raised her hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh. "Nothing, Darby, but if you do recall just last night you were saying how awful all newsies were…"  
  
Darby let out a sigh and collapsed on a plush chair, brushing her hair out of her face. "I know, Kat, I am going utterly crazy." She once again got up and started to pace. "I mean, I am going out with a newsboy! What in God's name is wrong with me?"  
  
Katrina arose from the chair and walked over to her friend, placing a hand on her shoulder. "I do not have a single clue what you have done with my best friend, Darby Lynn Rockwell. But I must say, I like the new you."  
  
Darby burst into a smile as she and Katrina embraced. "Oh, Kat, what would I do without you?"  
  
Katrina pulled away, a slick smile on her face. "You would be engaged to David Van Prick, that's what. And you would have never met this Spot Conlon again if I had not dragged you to that party."  
  
"Oh, Kat!" Darby cried, dropping to her knees. "Shall I kneel at your divine feet and grovel?"  
  
Katrina uttered a laugh, pulling Darby to her feet. "Get up, you silly girl. You can grovel later, also, because I have some information on this suitor of yours…"  
  
"Oh, really, Kat?" Darby squealed. "What do you know?"  
  
"Well, of course you know Whitie…"  
  
"Hum, Whitie," Darby asked. "That names sound so damn familiar. Have I heard it before…"  
  
"Oh, come off it now, Darby!" Katrina cried, playfully swatting her friend. "I told you I was sorry for that! Besides, if I never would have made you mad, then Spot would have never chased after you."  
  
"Oh, shush, Kat, and tell me what you know!" Darby exclaimed.  
  
"Alright!" Katrina said. "Well, when Whitie was ready to walk me home, he asked where Spot was and all the guys there told him that he had chased after the rich blonde girl. Anyhow, Whitie was walking me home, and I asked who Spot was, since I knew that the only rich blonde girl at the party was you. Well, Whitie told me all about Spot Conlon!"  
  
Darby was practically on the edge of her seat. "Well, go one, Kat. Go on!"  
  
"Alright," Katrina laughed, "alright! It seems that Spot Conlon is quite infamous in Brooklyn…"  
  
"Infamous?" Darby exclaimed.  
  
Katrina nodded. "Yes. Seems as though your Spot is the leader of the Brooklyn newsies, or shall I say the FEARLESS leader of the Brooklyn newsies."  
  
"FEARLESS?"  
  
"Yes, seems as though Spot holds quite a bit of power and respect. Well, anyhow, Whitie told me that the norm for Spot was to be withdrawn and irritable…"  
  
"Withdrawn and irritable?" Darby cried.  
  
Katrina rolled her eyes. "Yes, Darby! Now will you let me finish a thought?"  
  
Darby nodded. "Sorry, Kat. Go ahead."  
  
"As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted. Well, in Whitie Wilson's words, 'Spot Conlon don't like ta socialize much.' I fancy what that means is that your little boyfriend isn't very friendly. Spot Conlon fancies getting into fights and beating other newsboys to within one inch of their life. That is why he's leader and that is why no one likes to socialize much with him. He sells his papers alone and even has his own room. Everyone is afraid to talk to him because they are afraid that he will 'soak' them. And did I mention the girls? Well, every lady in New York either fears Mr. Conlon or else is desperately in love with him. Whitie went on for about ten minutes listing all the names of girls that Spot has been with. Ten minutes worth, Darby, and that was only a portion. Did I mention he also has a fondness for the bottle and is known to drink worse than a fish?"  
  
Darby was stunned by the description of Spot Conlon that Katrina had just spun. "Whoa," was all she comprehends.  
  
"But," Katrina said, a smile crossing her face, "Whitie also told me that for the past few days Spot has been jabbering nonstop about some gorgeous blonde 'richie' he met in front of a bordello. Seems that Spot was on his way back from a date with the infamous Adelle, and she broke up with him. And he met you. And I fancy that since you are the only gorgeous blonde 'richie' he knows, he likes you. From the description Whitie has given me and from the description you have given me, it seems like he likes you pretty damn much to act like sunshine to you. Goddamn, I say, goddamn, Darby Rockwell."  
  
Darby could only stare into Katrina's eyes. She didn't know how to respond to this, only mumble something incomprehensible.  
  
"Come again, Darby?" Katrina asked.  
  
Darby quickly walked over to the window that overlooked the front lawn, crossing her arms over her chest.  
  
"What's wrong, Darby?" Katrina asked, joining her.  
  
Darby shook her head. "I don't know. I mean, this has never happened to me before, Kat. I thought I would have been Mrs. David Van Wyck by now and that my life would be over. But no, Spot Conlon had to waltz into my life. I do not even know him, yet, I like him. I really like him. He is charming and funny and so good-looking…with those eyes. I mean, I know that I acted horrid to him last night, but he still asked me to dinner. Goddamnit, why did this have to happen to me!"  
  
Darby let out a cry and collapsed onto the plush chair. Katrina took the match that faced Darby. "Darby," she said, placing a hand on her shoulder.  
  
"What?" Darby asked, looking up.  
  
A soft smile crossed Katrina's face. "Do you know how you are on pins and needles wishing for your prince to sweep you away from the behemoth and from your evil stepparents?"  
  
Darby slowly nodded.  
  
"This might be him, Darby. Hell, I could be wrong, but it's worth a chance. I mean, look at it this way. You don't go to dinner with him, end up Mrs. David Van Prick, and always wondering what could have happened if you would have went. Or, you do go to dinner with him, he turns out to be an utter jackass and you don't have to see him anymore. Or, you go to dinner with him, he turns out to be your goddamn prince, you fall in love and ride off on his white horse into the goddamn horizon and kiss David Van Prick and your parents good bye and then you will be free to do whatever the hell you desire. It's what you want to do."  
  
Darby looked at Katrina, tears welling in her eyes. "Oh God, Katrina, what would I do without you?" she sobbed, leaning forward and wrapping her friend in an embrace.  
  
"We would both go mad and be committed," Katrina replied.  
  
Darby let out a laugh through her tears and pulled away. She opened her mouth to reply, when she heard her mother's voice through the ajar bedroom door.  
  
"Well, Mrs. Van Witt, it was lovely having you over. I daresay, but would your family like to join John and I at our dinner party tonight? We are celebrating a ver special event, Darby and David's betrothal!"  
  
In unison, Darby and Katrina let out horrified gasps and connected gazes.  
  
"I would love to, Mrs. Rockwell. Thank you," Mrs. Van Witt replied.  
  
The conversation stopped, and the pair's shoes could be heard clicking in the hallway, coming closer to Darby's bedroom.  
  
"Darby, how in hell can they betroth you to Van Prick when you don't even concede?" Katrina whispered incredulously.  
  
All the color had drained from Darby's face, making her icy eyes stark against her skin. "I…I…I don't know, Kat!" she said, her body shaking.  
  
"What about Spot?" Katrina asked.  
  
"I have to go to dinner with him, Kat, I just have to. I can't be betrothed to David…" she shakily said.  
  
"Darby!" Katrina hissed. "Think of something! They are coming!"  
  
Darby had never felt so lightheaded, yet she scoured her brain for a plan. " Alright! Tonight, sneak into my room, a little before seven. I can say I have the flu and you can be me, just cover yourself with the sheets! And I can steal out with Spot and they would never even know!"  
  
Katrina didn't even have time to reply as the door to the bedroom creaked open and Darby flew off the chair and dived into her bed, pulling the covers up to her chin just as her mother and Mrs. Van Witt appeared.  
  
"Why hello, Darby…dear, are you ill?" Mrs. Van Witt cried.  
  
Darby weakly nodded her head.  
  
Mrs. Rockwell pushed past Mrs. Van Witt and sat down on the edge of Darby's bed, feeling her temperature by placing her palm on her forehead.  
  
"You seem hot," she murmured. "What is wrong?"  
  
Darby mustered a cough. "Oh, I feel so weak, Mother dear! I think the Spanish Influenza is reeking havoc on me internally even as we speak."  
  
"Oh, yes!" Katrina piped in, quickly arising from the chair. "The Spanish Influenza is going around. Cough, cough! Oh, mother, I don't feel well, either! I think I might have it too?"  
  
Mrs. Van Witt looked suspiciously at her daughter as she rested her head on her shoulder. She felt Katrina's forehead. "What a shame, darling, now you will have to miss the dinner party Mrs. Rockwell has so kindly invited us, too."  
  
Darby and Katrina's eyes met from across the room.  
  
"Oh, cough cough! I am saddened! Blast this flu! I am so sorry to have to miss your wonderful party, Mrs. Rockwell!" Katrina cried.  
  
"Um," Mrs. Rockwell said, "it is very well, Katrina." She then turned to Darby. "Well, you do look rather pale. I guess you will have to miss the dinner party after all. Fiddlesticks."  
  
"Oh, mother! What a pity!" Darby exclaimed.  
  
As Mrs. Rockwell arose and joined Mrs. Van Van Witt once again, Darby and Katrina locked gazes, their eyes full of joy.  
  
"Well, come along," Mrs. Van Witt told her daughter. "We must get you tucked into bed before you get worse. And you, Darby, I hope you are feeling better."  
  
"Oh, thank you, Mrs., cough cough, Van Witt!" Darby weakly replied.  
  
"Bye, cough cough, Darby!" Katrina said, throwing Darby a wink, as she and he mother disappeared.  
  
"Good bye, cough, Katrina!" Darby replied, watching her mother's disappointed gaze linger on her, before she disappeared out the door.  
  
Once the door had clicked, Darby listened until the clicking of the heels altogether disappeared before she jumped out of bed and dashed over to the window, watching the new snow start to fall.  
  
"Spot Conlon," she softly said, a smile touching her lips. "Spot Conlon. I'll be ready for tonight." 


	8. Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT  
  
An alcoholic newsboy with an anger management control problem that has seduced more than half the female populace of New York City.  
  
Jesus Christ, Darby, what the HELL were you thinking?  
  
Darby Rockwell stepped back from the antique full-length mirror, the fantastically expensive antique full-length mirror, the cold glass encased in the glimmering mahogany wood..  
  
Her gaze flickered from the tips of her expensive heels, up her expensive scarlet dress, and to connecting with her own eyes.  
  
She stepped back, shaking her head, causing her neat spiral curls to bounce. "Huh-uh. Huh-uh. No. There is no way in hell I am going. What was I thinking.?"  
  
A voice behind her made Darby let out a gasp and nearly jump out of her skin. "What do you mean what you were.Good Lord, Darby girl, you look fantastic!"  
  
Darby spun around to see Katrina Van Witt climbing, unsuccessfully, in through the window facing the front lawn.  
  
Darby, still shaking her head, trudged over to the window, coming to Katrina's aid by grabbing her wrist and pulling her in through the window. Katrina tumbled to the floor, but helped herself up, her eyes still locked on Darby.  
  
"Darby, why are you shaking your head at me?"  
  
Darby spun around, gazing into the mirror once again, Katrina's reflection behind hers. "Kat, I can not do this. How could I have been so utterly STUPID! I mean, I am going OUT with a NEWSBOY that I do not even know! I, Darby goddamn Rockwell!"  
  
Katrina rolled her eyes, and putting her hands on her hips, emitted a sigh. "Darby Lynn, I thought we went through this today. Now you mean to tell me that just because you have a small case of the jitters you are going to screw me over? Me, Darby! I am covering your ass by pretending to be you. Your mother could walk in any minute and catch me and it would be curtains for both of us! But, I'd rather me get caught than you not go on this date, because if you do not go then I will have just wasted my time on some sorry ass socialite who is going to let herself become Mrs. David Van Prick! So, Darby Rockwell, I pose this to you: What in the blue hell are you going to do?"  
  
Katrina Van Witt and her wonderful speeches. They did the trick every time.  
  
Darby turned about to face Katrina.  
  
"But, Kat!" she cried, twirling a strand of hair and fidgeting about.  
  
Katrina let out a laugh and placed her hands on her friend's shoulders. "Darby, please. You are going to go out with Spot Conlon and have a hell of a time. If he acts like a prick, well so be it. You are wonderful and great and look gorgeous tonight and any man who thinks you are not worthy of him is a jackass. Go out and have a ball. You owe it to yourself. I mean, hell, if, you hear me, IF it comes to the fact that you have to marry Van Prick, do you really want him to be your first kiss? To be the first man you have ever been with? Go out and have fun. I shall stay under the covers like a good little girl, pretending to be you and not make a peep. You did tell your mother not to disturb you, correct?"  
  
Darby nodded, relief flooding through her. "Yes. Mother shan't bother you. All afternoon I acted as though I were desperately ill with the Spanish flu, and she believed me!"  
  
Katrina let out a laugh. "Well, I didn't get past Mother so easily. She knew I was lying through my teeth, so she made me confess."  
  
Darby's mouth dropped. "You-you--you TOLD her?"  
  
"Relax, Darby!" Katrina giggled. "I told my mother and she thinks it is a positive crime that you must marry Van Prick. She thought it wan an exquisite idea that you go and see this newsie. And she thought it a wonderful thought that I be you, poor little Darby Rockwell bedridden with a nasty case of the Spanish flu!"  
  
Darby let out a sigh of relief. "Jesus, I envy you, Kat. I wish I had your mother. Well, anyhow, it's around seven, is it not?"  
  
Katrina nodded. "Yes, it was about fifteen 'til when my parents left. I left right after them. So, you should be right on time for Romeo! Ah me!"  
  
Darby playfully swatted Katrina. "Oh, hush. Oh, poor Darby, poor sick Darby! You have a horrid case of Spanish Influenza, and we should get you into bed!"  
  
Katrina let out a snort and rolled her eyes, shucking off the overcoat that she had worn to reveal a nightgown.  
  
Darby clicked her tongue. "Perfect touch, Miss Van Witt."  
  
After Katrina was settled into Darby's goose-down bed, Darby commanded her to lie on her side so her back faced the door.  
  
"Alright," she said. "I'm going to pull the covers over your head, Kat! Don't suffocate on me!"  
  
"Oh, go to hell!" Katrina's muffled voice replied.  
  
Darby burst into a grin. "Alright, Kat. We are all set. I am going to go now. If anything happens, anything, blame it all on me. Say that I was on a date with a newsboy. Mother and Father are still reeling from my throwing of Mrs. Marks apple pie in ickle David's face, and maybe if they discover that their baby is off with some ruffian the Van Wycks will break the engagement!"  
  
Katrina pulled the covers off her head and arched her back so she could see Darby. "Darby, they shan't find out. They won't. Now get the hell out of here."  
  
Darby lent her friend a genuine smile. "Kat, how could I ask for a better friend than you?"  
  
Katrina shrugged. "You couldn't. Now go!"  
  
"Alright, alright!" Darby whispered, as Katrina once again disappeared under the covers.  
  
Humming a tune she had learned as a child, Darby strode around the bed and over to the ornate full-length mirror, admiring her reflection and straightening her crimson bonnet. She was giving the mirror a grand smile when Katrina's muffled voice came from under the covers, "Have you gone, Darby?"  
  
Taking her gaze away from the reflection, Darby made her way to the side of the bed parallel to the French doors that opened into an airy balcony overlooking the side yard. Leaning over the railing, and the fresh snow blowing in her face, she released a joyous sigh, her breath forming into a frost. She then cast her eyes to the grounds, and had to place her gloved palms on the railing to keep from tumbling over. For through the veils of immaculate snow, she could see none other than Spot Conlon scaling the black wrought-iron fence that isolated the Rockwell estate from the sidewalk out front.  
  
Her perfectly red-lacquered lips fell open. "What in Christ's sake does he think he is doing?"  
  
Katrina immediately threw back the covers, her green eyes glinting and hell fire hair awry. "Go!" she hissed.  
  
Darby quickly turned over her shoulder, unable to suppress the smile from forming on her lips, her eyes glittering with anticipation. "Yes, Kat, yes! I love you! Good."  
  
Alas, Darby's words quickly were murdered before they reached the air. Her wide eyes locked onto Katrina's, the same mask of utter fear being reciprocated on the Irish girl's face. Darby felt her stomach immediately lodge itself into her throat.  
  
Outside the closed bedroom door, there was the clicking of shoes on the gleaming hardwood floors of the hallway and the sound of muffled voices.  
  
"I do hope that I am not causing any trouble, Mrs. Rockwell."  
  
"Oh, don't be silly, David! I'm sure Darby is just dying to see you! She is so very ill and I fancy that your voice will make her feel all the better. Just a warning, dear, don't get too close! We don't want the both of you to catch ill!"  
  
Katrina's jade eyes were bulging from her skull. "David!" she mouthed.  
  
Darby could feel the marvelous anxiety slithering throughout her. "Mother!" she cried soundlessly.  
  
Both girls' gazes snapped to the door as the knob turned and the door slowly started to creak open.  
  
"Are you sure, Mrs. Rockwell? I would love to see Darby-but is she well enough to see me?" David's voice floated into the room, thickly coated in false concern.  
  
"Oh, don't be silly David! It's a pity she couldn't come to the party tonight, but just parley to her and I'm sure she will feel so much more well!" Mrs. Rockwell's hand was on the slightly ajar door, her voice high and girlish.  
  
Darby and Katrina's eyes once again interlocked. Kat was not deathly pale under her mass of red hair.  
  
Darby reckoned she was suffocating. She stepped forward, yet spun about and dove onto the balcony once more. Spot had succeeded in scaling the fence and was to the other side. He let go and fell cleanly on his feet in the thick snow.  
  
"Oh, CHRIST!" she hissed under her breath, the panic starting to fill her brain. Her mother could not see him, no matter what. Ava was still grotesquely flirting with David outside the room, yet Darby knew that the door would open at any moment.  
  
Whirling about, her hands waving throughout the air, Darby elicited a squeak when she heard the door begin to creak open. In one rapid motion, she slammed the French doors leading to the balcony behind her, praying that Spot Conlon wouldn't aspire to any clever notions like throwing pebbles at the windows to gain her attention. Bent at the waist, she sped across the room, throwing herself behind the opening door, just as Katrina slammed her back on the bed, throwing the covers over her head.  
  
Darby whole body was quaking and her breathing shaky as her spacing became more confined as the door was thrown open. Through the crack, she could see her mother's back adorned in her vainglorious maroon dress.  
  
"Well, David, not don't be too long!" Ava Rockwell playfully scolded.  
  
There was silence for a moment, save the audible hammering of Darby's heart in her chest. Then, the door suddenly began to close. She uttered a gasp and threw her palm to her mouth to stifle it.  
  
The room was shrouded in semi-darkness. David Van Wyck stood only a few feet away from her, garbed in an incredibly expensive raven suit, staring at the heap on the bed that was Katrina. He need only turn his head to the left to find her out.  
  
Incredibly, he only ran a hand through his polished brown hair, an arrogant smirk playing unto his lips like the light, and padded over to the bed. Darby watched in sheer awe, her breath bated in her throat, as he approached the bed placing his hand on a gleaming wooden chair that was mate to her desk. With a quick flick of the wrist, he had planted the chair on the side of the bed, a few feet of distance between the two. He slowly sank down onto it, straddling it backwards, lazily placing his elbow on the chair back, and resting his chin in his palm.  
  
He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Darby, Darby, Darby. Sick with the flu, eh?"  
  
Katrina did not flinch a muscle under the sheets.  
  
"Awh, c'mon, Darby girl! Your dear old Mumzy said that my voice would make you all better!" He tilted his head back and released a proud laugh. "You know that tonight was to be our betrothal? Well, last week was supposed to be our betrothal, but you just had to throw that lovely little pie in my face, didn't you?" His voice lowered a pitch. "You can be awful feisty, Darby girl, and sometimes, how can I say this? You make me fucking infuriated." He emitted another false laugh. "Yep, good old Robert and Christina were plenty mad about that whole incident, and Robert was about to call it all off-but I told him not too. Why, you may ask. Well, you see, I don't fancy you very much as a person, Darby girl. I know that Irish bitch influences you with all that feminist bullshit and perhaps that's why you're so buck wild. And of course, I could have any girl in all New York if I wanted. But, no, Darby girl, I want you. You. Why?"  
  
Darby watched in sheer horror as David stood, knocking the chair to the floor and sat down upon the edge of the bed. He traced a finger down Katrina's spine through the covers. "I want your body," he whispered. "Yes, at first it was purely for me, for lust. But now I want to teach you a lesson, Darby girl. I want to make you feel like a dirty whore on our wedding night when you give yourself to me. I want to make you pay for making me look like an absolute fucking fool in front of all of New York's finest!"  
  
Darby fell against the wall, her heart in her mouth. Whether she was fantastically stunned by Van Prick's revelation or in the fact he looked as though poised to throw back the covers and reveal Katrina, Darby knew she had to do something.  
  
And on top of it all, she heard the faint clicking of some object against the French doors. She winced. Oh, Christ Almighty! Why does that newsboy have to throw those damn pebbles?  
  
Her eyes fluttered open to see David averting his gaze from the French doors to the covers one again. This time, Darby knew that in her gut he was going to pull back the covers and see that mass of red hair and that she would never be able to rendezvous with Spot Conlon ever again.  
  
So, she did the only imaginable thing that came to mind. Straightening, she cried in a shaky voice, "David, David, are you still in there?'  
  
She exhaled a large sum of air when she saw David flick his gaze from the bed to the door. "Mrs. Rockwell? Is that you?"  
  
Darby had to suppress herself for waltzing about the room in sheer rapture. Only David Van Wyck in all his utter stupidity could be duped into such a foolish ruse. "Yes, David, it is. I do fancy you should come out now. Darby does need her rest!"  
  
David reluctantly arose from the bed, his gaze once again falling on Katrina. "All right, Mrs. Rockwell, if you think it is best."  
  
Infuriation in disappointment manifesting itself in the chartreuse his cheeks took on, David Van Wyck stocked across the room, miraculously not even paying any heed to Darby. His hand grasped the knob and he flung the door open, Darby once more being in a claustrophobic situation.  
  
The door clicked behind him. "Mrs. Rockwell? Are you out here, Mrs. Rockwell?"  
  
Darby's breath finally released itself from her lungs and she sprang over to the vanity, grasping the key from the top drawer and bounding over to the door again, fitting the key in the lock, relishing in the clicking sound.  
  
Katrina abruptly sat up, throwing the covers down. Her entire body was shaking as she quickly cupped her hands to her mouth.  
  
Darby pushed off against the door, leaving the key in the lock. She was not going to take any chances whatsoever. She slowly stode across the room and to the French doors, Katrina's wild eyes following her.  
  
"Do you know how close we came to being found out!" he melodic Irish accent was high pitched.  
  
Darby disregarded Katrina and flung open the French doors, the bitter cold wind chilling her to the marrow of her bones. The doors wildly banging behind her, she walked erectly out to the edge of the balcony.  
  
Spot Conlon stood below, his threadbare scarf whipping untamed in the wind, his arm poised backwards, his other filled with small stones.  
  
"Will you stop with that horrid motion, you ungodly newsboy!" Darby screeched down at him.  
  
Spot dropped his arm to his side and stared up at her. "Hello to ya, too!" he shouted back.  
  
Darby released an openly disgusted noise, and turned around, entering the room once more and slamming the French doors behind her.  
  
"Darby, did you here me?" Katrina shrilly asked from the bed.  
  
Darby quickly glanced at her, placing her index and middle fingers to her temples. "What, Katrina?" she asked, trying to bridle her irritation. Katrina rose out of the bed, quickly hurrying to Darby's side. "Darby! Van Prick knows something is not right. I mean, I thought that this would work out, no problem, but, Darby, have we really looked at the consequences if your parents really did find out--"  
  
Darby turned her head, eyes narrowed into slits to face Katrina, whose voice quickly died. "Shut-up. You are the one that is always giving me these motivational speeches. And suddenly you get cold feet and, Kat, I would give you a lecture to rival one of your finest but now there is a very attractive yet cold newsboy out there waiting for me and I shall not disappoint him! The door is lock and I highly doubt that my mother would give enough of a damn to leave the sides of her haughty guests just to break into my room at David van Wyck's snivelings that there was something the matter with poor baby Darby Girl."  
  
Katrina took a step backwards, her eyes wide. "Wow, I think you did just beat my all time finest speech."  
  
Darby couldn't help not suppressing a smile. "Oh, Kat, I love you, really I do. You are an utter angel for doing this and I know I could be risking my life and yours by doing this, but what is the worst that could happen? If I am caught then perhaps the Van Wycks will just be to disgusted this time to listen to David's pleas to marry me, the filthy bastard."  
  
Katrina grinned. "Another one for Darby Rockwell."  
  
Darby rolled her eyes. "Oh, come now, Kat. He's waiting. And I shan't tarry any longer."  
  
Katrina sighed, falling back onto the goose-down bed. "You're quite right, Darby. I shall stay here like the utter angel I am until you return, and then you must tell me the explicit details!"  
  
Darby could feel the intense heat her face took on. "Oh, Kat, do be quiet. I shall be back. Do try to be good, will you?"  
  
Katrina raised an eyebrow as she settled into the voluptuous bedding, her green eyes glittering. "Do go to hell, Darby, will you?"  
  
Darby shook her head, her blonde spirals bounding about. "Perhaps I will, Kat. I do not know where he is taking me."  
  
Without another word, Darby turned around and strode once again to the French doors, pulling them open, allowing the pristine snow to stain her body. She made her way over to the balcony, her satin heels clicking on the cement, and leaned over.  
  
Spot Conlon still stood below, his breathtaking smile upon his lips, his cheeks stained red from the cold. "Well, we'se already had our introductions."  
  
"Indeed!" Darby replied in an arrogant tone, readjusting her fantastically expensive bonnet.  
  
Spot jammed his hands even further into his weather beaten gray jacket. "Hey, ya know, dis here kind of reminds me of sumthin!"  
  
"Oh, really?" Darby inquired, an eyebrow raised. "And what would that be?"  
  
Spot cocked his head, as though in a state of deep though. Suddenly, it seemed as though inspiration had been induced into him. "Ah, yeah!" he hollered, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Da one wit da two people and da balcony. Da one by-what da hell's his name? Gregory Shakespen!"  
  
Darby had to place a gloved hand to her mouth to stifle her hysterical laughter. "Gregory Shakespen? You don't happen to mean William Shakespeare, per chance, now would you?"  
  
She saw that same amazing grin light up his face. "Yeah, dat's it: William Shakespeare. Read it a long time ago in a book dat Whitie hocked from da book store!"  
  
Darby shook her head and sighed. "Newsboys."  
  
"What ya say?" he asked, confusing filling his face.  
  
"Nothing, nothing." And as quickly as it had retreated, her arrogance once again reappeared. She flicked her golden mass of hair over her shoulder and called in a haughty voice, "Well, you did indeed call on me, sir, so I am quite wondering how you expect me to get down!"  
  
Spot appeared taken aback. "Git down?"  
  
"Yes get down!" she cried. "I certainly cannot use the main entrance for my mother is throwing a grand party and."  
  
"Use da trellis!"  
  
Darby immediately halted, and stared down at him incredulously. "The trellis? The trellis? You want me to use the damn trellis?"  
  
Through the falling snow, Spot shrugged simply. "Yeah, why not?"  
  
Disgust masked her features and she stepped back, appalled. "A lady of my class cannot use a trellis--"  
  
"Den how d'ya expect to git down?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"To git down. Ya said yaself ya muddah's t'rowin some hoity-toidy pahty. Climb halfway down and den jump da rest. I'll catch ya!"" Darby regarded him with utter disbelief. "Climb the trellis-jump down? Sir!"  
  
"Ah, stop yer bitchin' and jist do it! I'se cold!"  
  
Darby stepped back, astonished. She was prepared to release another string of protests, when she decided to cave and begrudgingly stepped towards the balcony edge, peering down. Her marvelous fear of heights was creeping up on her psyche. "Uh, ahem, it sure is a long way down--"  
  
His steely eyes glimmered. "Trust me. I promise dat I'll catch ya."  
  
She deeply swallowed. "Only-only if you promise."  
  
His smile glittered back at her through the falling snow. "I'se already did."  
  
Darby elicited a groan and raised her eyed skyward, marking the symbol of the cross across her chest. "Dear God, save my soul."  
  
With a prayer and bated breath, Darby reluctantly placed one leg over the marble balcony, followed by the other. Now standing on the edge, grabbing onto the thick railing for dear life, she peered down at Spot, who stood with his hands raised, coaxing her to climb down.  
  
Trying desperately to keep focus, she shimmied over to the trellis where her mother's delicate blood red roses grew in the summer. She breathed a sigh of relief when she had one foot on the trellis. Alas, as she was placing her second foot on the trellis, her fantastically expensive heel slipped on the ice that had so helpfully collected, and she felt herself slip. She released a cry and desperately tried to latch onto the trellis or gain some footing, yet she felt herself tumbling through the air with a scream.  
  
Yet, instead of crashing into the blisteringly cold drifts of snow, she fell into a set of strong arms, the wind being vacuumed from her lungs and slithering out her trachea. Her eyes quickly fluttered open to find Spot Conlon peering down at her with wide blue eyes, his dirty blonde hair blowing about in the wind, his cheeks and tip of nose bright red.  
  
He could only stare down at her, absolutely stunned and breathless. Darby, still shaking, managed to find her breath again. "Thanks for keeping you promise," she said, with a dash of ironic humor.  
  
Spot emitted a forced laugh, releasing his arm from under her legs. Yet her posture was still quivering and she fell into him.  
  
Trudging over the drifts of snow, they somehow slunk through the gates and to the sidewalk. A cold draft pierced the air, tossing Darby's flaxen curls about. She stuffed her hands even further into her rabbit fur muffler and leaned more into Spot, as his arm grew tighter about her.  
  
She quickly looked back at her father's grand mansion, ablaze with a fire in the cold night and veils of snow.  
  
Darby suddenly felt a peculiar sense of liberation. She had made it. Here she was, outside the gates with the newsboy and Van Prick was inside with all the pinchbeck socialites of New York.  
  
A smile danced at her lips, yet faded as a another though occurred to her. "Sir?"  
  
"Uh-huh?" he asked, trying to settle into his threadbare jacket as much as possible.  
  
"Where are we going?"  
  
Spot erupted into laughter, his grip tightening on Darby.  
  
"It's not to a pub, is it?" she cautiously asked.  
  
He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the laughter. "Nah, Darby, its much bettah dan dat."  
  
Darby released a groan and placed a gloved hand to her forehead as she allowed Spot Conlon to lead her off Main and to an unknown destination. 


	9. Chapter Nine

Note From Author: First off, I wish to thank the lovely people who took out the time to review! Next, I give James Cameron props to the tavern scene. So if it looks familiar then.yeah.Titanic is one of my most favorite movies ever, after Newsies of course!  
  
CHAPTER NINE  
  
The decrepit structure stood looming down at Darby Rockwell, broken and worn against the backdrop of the velvet night sky laced with veils of falling snow.  
  
She inhaled in a large sum of bitter air, the sheer disgust in the pit of her stomach combining atrociously with the blistering cold of mid-December. She closed her eyes tightly and opened them once more, not wishing to believe what she beheld was truth. Alas, the weather beaten sign blowing wildly in the howling gusts told her otherwise: for on the splintered plaque of wood dressed in a coat of timeworn off-white paint were the letters stenciled in black of Ye Olde Tavern.  
  
She quickly narrowed her dark blue eyes to slits and abruptly turned to Spot Conlon. He stood gazing up at the tavern, his hat on his heart as though saluting some kind of memorial, wisps of his dark brassy hair blowing about.  
  
"What the HELL is this?" she hissed incredulously.  
  
His green eyes slowly fell to her and it was as though he were regarded her for the maiden time. He shrugged. "Ye Olde Tavern?"  
  
Darby rolled her eyes with a flourish of revulsion. "I know damned well what the sign says! But when I asked you before you clearly stated that you were not going to take me to a pub!"  
  
Spot's eyes glimmered as a smile danced on the corners of his lips. "Dat's true, dat's true." He motioned to the tavern with his cap. "But I nevah said I wasn't gonna take ya to a tavern."  
  
Darby stepped back in repugnance, nearly toppling over in the mounds of snow. "Now see here!" she cried, unsheathing her index finger and pointing it at him. "When we made plans this morning you told me that you were going to take me to dinner. Dinner! Not to some horrid, baseborn tavern so that I can partake in shots of ignoble moonshine produced by those inbred hillbillies down in West--"  
  
Yet, Darby's words were stifled when the door to the tavern abruptly slammed open. She immediately jumped back, her features twisting into repulsion. For a rather stocky overweight man clothed in tattered brown trousers and a filthy jacket stumbled out of the doorway. He was bald at the crown and in desperate need of a shave and his nose was bright red, a sure mark of a night of heavy drinking. He stumbled and nearly fell, yet he grasped onto the doorframe with his left hand, his body swinging about until he crashed into the side of the tavern.  
  
Spot was trying desperately to suppress his laughter as Darby watched with open disgust.  
  
The man wearily arose, and began to sing to himself in a rather horrid, slurred voice. "How dry I am. How dry I am. Nobody knows how dry I am." He ambled forward, a bottle of whiskey glitter-shot in his hand. He lurched over to Darby, nearly tripping himself. She stepped back with a high pitched squeak after inhaling the disgusting odor of alcohol on his breath.  
  
"Mum? Mum? Izat you?" he stammered, clawing at Darby's velvet overcoat.  
  
Darby stared down at him with wide eyes, stumbling awkwardly backwards to miss the man's clawings.  
  
"Mum? Mum? Izat you?"  
  
Darby elicited a screech as her satin stiletto faltered from under her, the heel snapping. She fell with a thud into the bitter snow. Her eyes were wide in fear as the man approached, waving his arms about in front of him.  
  
"Mum? Izat you?"  
  
"I declare, I am not your mother, sir!" Darby cried in a terse voice.  
  
She emitted a scream as, scuttling backwards, the man's eyes rolled up into his skull and he released a groan, falling with a thud between her spread- eagle legs. She peered down at the man, her breathing heavy, regarding him in sheer horror.  
  
Spot Conlon's wild laughter suddenly filled the polar air.  
  
Darby's wide blue eyes gazed up at Spot, filled with astonishment. He was doubled over, his face bright red, slapping his knees and figuring the whole ordeal one immense riot.  
  
Darby could feel the impossible infuriation begin to well in her depths. With an audible, high-pitched scream stained with frustration, she raised her right leg, connecting the heel of her shoe with the man's nose. A loud crack was heard as his nose shattered.  
  
Spot's laughter died and his features transformed into that of utter shock. Dark crimson blood, the identical color of Darby's outfit, began to gush out of the man's nostrils, staining the pure white snow with a deep, sanguineous hue.  
  
Darby angrily tossed her head, throwing her flaxen curls over her shoulders, rising to her feet. Her face was heated and an eyebrow was raised insolently, as though tempting Spot to call her on being wrong. Yet, he only shook his head, his gaze flickering from the poor man to Darby's scowl. "Yowch. Dat's gonna hoit in da mornin'."  
  
Darby still glared furiously at him, her height tapered due to the broken heel.  
  
Spot once again broke out into that breathtaking smile as he walked over to her, "Awh, c'mon, ya not gonna let dat one little incident ruin da whole night, now are ya?"  
  
Darby raised an eyebrow and glanced at him, quickly averting her gaze to the tavern. "No, I s'ppose I shan't. But if you really thought you were poised to get me that utterly blasted just to you could seduce me-well, let's just conclude that I do have one heel left and I don't fancy your nose any more than that horrid beast's!"  
  
He released a snort as he slung an arm around her. "Dat's a goil! Now let's git inside befoah I freeze to death."  
  
Spot had begun the task of walking to the tavern, Darby struggling to match his strides. He halted and turned over his shoulder. "What's it dis time?"  
  
Darby glanced up at him, her face hot. "It's damn hard walking on one heel!"  
  
Spot released a sigh and strode over to Darby, bending down on one knee in front of her. He took her foot in his grasp, as she placed a hand on his shoulder for support. With a flick of the wrist, he had removed her chartreuse heel. He arose, and raising his bent leg in the air, brought the shoe hard down on his thigh. The heel snapped, falling to the snow.  
  
"Here y'are," he nonchalantly said, returning Darby her shoe.  
  
Darby stood, gapping down at the broken heel. "That--that was from ITALY!" she howled, close to tears.  
  
Spot was now at the tavern door and turned. "How many pairs d'ya already have, Dahby?"  
  
Darby cast her gaze to him, the broken shoe dangling pathetically in her grasp. "Five."  
  
He sighed and shook his head. "What I t'ought. C'mon, Dahby. Don't want to wait outside all day for ya ass. Ya can have a funeral for the dearly departed shoe when ya git home. I need a whiskey ta warm me up."  
  
Darby released a disgusted noise and flicked her nose to the air, whisking past Spot in only one shoe. He exhaled and quietly closed the door behind him, yet not isolating them from the harsh cold.  
  
As the door shut behind them, Darby was immediately shrouded in a bitter darkness. She shifted her weight, the ancient floorboards creaking under her, a roister of music being heard from someplace.  
  
"What the hell kind tavern is this?" she asked in a soft voice, a sense of childish fear invading her. Darkness had never been a grand companion, thanks to good old Aunt Bernice's tales.  
  
She felt Spot search for her hand, finally gripping it tight in his strong grasp. "It's downstairs, Dahby, don't worry," he replied in a reassuring voice over the music.  
  
He began to walk forward, the antediluvian floorboards protesting with every step, Darby reluctantly following.  
  
It was as they were trekking down steps that seemed as though they would cave any moment that she asked, "Spot?"  
  
"Mm?"  
  
"The people here-they are not like that horrid man outside are they?"  
  
Spot couldn't suppress a smile as he concluded descending the stairs. "Well, Dahby, ya about to find out--"  
  
"What do you--" Yet, Darby was unable to finish her thoughts as in one rapid motion Spot kicked open a door in the dark, causing it to slam open, and jerked his wrist, sending Darby head first into the room.  
  
She miraculously regained her balance just before she nearly toppled onto her pate, and slowly straightened, taking in the room. The room was small and slightly cramped, bright and white-walled in splintering paint. Jubilant couples dressed as that of lower class danced arm and arm voraciously about the room, quickly dodging through the warped wooden tables adorned with glittery bottles and green tinted cups filled to the brim with alcohol and unhappy chairs, the rambunctious, fast pace melody of the small band of men in the corner playing the bag pipe, clickers, make- shift drum, and fiddle reverberating about the room.  
  
Darby stood frozen, unable to will her body to move.  
  
"C'mon, Dahby!" Spot's wild voice called over the infectious music as he strode past her, grabbing her upper arm and pulling her forward. "Let's dance!"  
  
She harshly dug her heels into the floor, causing him to turn around. Her eyes were saucers. "Dance? Dance?" she choked incredulously.  
  
He nodded, acting in a manner as though the atmosphere intoxicated him. "Yeah! Why not?"  
  
Her eyes panned over the room and she felt unbearably self-conscious. She turned her eyes to Spot once more. "I-I can't dance," she concluded feebly.  
  
His green eyes glimmered and a frown crossed his face. "Ya can't dance?"  
  
Darby nodded her head furiously, breaking away from his grasp. "Yes, I mean no! I cannot dance. I look like an awful elephant when I do!"  
  
He cocked his head. "Well whaddya gonna do?"  
  
Yet, Darby was already stepping back to a set of unoccupied chairs circled about a bowed wooden table. "It's quite all right. I am tired after the long walk here anyhow."  
  
Spot elicited a snort. "Long walk?" He then shrugged. "If ya say so!"  
  
And with that, Darby watched as he shucked off his moth-eaten charcoal jacket, leaving it strewn on the floor as he joyously joined the dancing whirlwind.  
  
Darby continued watching as she backed towards a chair, relief surging through her. "Thank God he didn't persist," she muttered as she took a seat. Alas, relief was also accompanied by a queer feeling of longing. She raised her eyes to see Spot had bounded onto a wooden raised platform in the center of the room, and now a gorgeous girl with fiery red hair was approaching him. An exuberant smile still danced upon his lips as he and the girl exchanged words and suddenly they had linked arms and were twirling about the platform, but not before he cast Darby a glint of a green eye and a wicked smile before turning away.  
  
Darby sniffed, immediately turning her burning glare away from him. A sudden feeling was shooting about through her system. Darby knew what it was in an instant.  
  
Jealousy.  
  
She let out a whine as she slouched in the rickety old chair, just feeling herself turn a superb shade of green.  
  
Well, let him dance about with that hussy if he wishes, she bitterly thought. See if he takes me to any sordid pubs again-  
  
"Ey, dis seat taken?"  
  
Darby immediately cast her eyes up to see two baseborn men, no more than their early twenties, gathered around the table staring down at her. An involuntary sneer crossed her lips as she took in their scraggly hair and unshaven faces and torn cloths-and the bottles of whisky they held in their grips.  
  
"Yes," she haughtily replied, immediately straightening against the back of the chair and pushing it away from the table, suddenly crossing her legs very tightly.  
  
Alas, the two men took no heed to her whatsoever, and lowered themselves into the chairs, one straddling it backwards and the one that had parleyed to her taking the seat closest to her.  
  
"I'm Jim and dis Butch," he introduced through a belch, motioning to the man riding the chair about-face.  
  
Darby slowly nodded her head, her nose pinched into disgust. "Charmed."  
  
Quite keen on ignoring them, she allowed her eyes to fall to the rapturous band that tapped their feet wildly to the beat.  
  
"Ain't ya hot in dat coat?"  
  
Darby slowly turned her gaze one again to the repugnant man, an arrogant eyebrow raised. "Do you really fathom that I would take such an expensive piece of garment off for some ruffian to steal?"  
  
Both men exchanged grins, baring their yellowed teeth, what teeth have they left.  
  
The man leaned forward, and Darby tilted the chair back in surprise and revulsion as he leaned over her, grasping an ashtray. Both men broke up into laughter.  
  
"Don't worry, little girl," he said through lighting a stinking cigar, "jist getting the ashtray."  
  
His friend released a hoarse laugh as Darby rolled her eyes in disgust and let out the appropriate accompanying noise.  
  
She sat for a few moment, her eyes trained on the band, the ecstatic music never missing beat, when the room suddenly felt stifling. She tried to sit in her heavy fur coat, yet the sweltering heat would not allow it. Finally, with an exaggerated sigh, Darby roughly untied her scarlet bonnet, throwing it on the table and slid out of her ostentatious jacket.  
  
Her eyes fell once again to the wooden platform, where Spot still continued to dance wildly, flinging the red head about. Suddenly, he looked up and caught her eye, a devilish smile slithering up his face. He dipped the girl to the ground, and while bent glanced up at Darby, a challenge in his brilliant eyes before suddenly looking away.  
  
Darby cocked an eyebrow. She regarded the challenge in his eye. Clearing her throat, she straightened in the chair, adjusting her curves and throwing her long golden spirals over her shoulder. She turned to the man sitting next to her, a large amount of smoke cascading out of his mouth from the cigar. "Jim? Did you say your name was?"  
  
He grunted, first looking at her chest and then to her eyes. "Yeah," he replied, snubbing the cigar in the ashtray.  
  
Darby widened her great blue eyes in innocence and smiled sweetly. "Well, then, Jim, you wouldn't mind if I had some of this?"  
  
Without Jim's approval, Darby reached in front of him and grabbed his glittering bottle of whisky. Her eyes connected with his and she raised the bottle to him. "Bottoms up!" she merrily cried, bringing the opening to her lips. Without ever bringing the bottle down, she had consumed nearly the entire amount of alcohol, and wiped the excess off of her mouth with the back of her hand. "Well, Jim, that was mighty good, if I do say so myself. But now you wouldn't deny a lady's request to dance, would you?"  
  
Jim immediately turned to his friend, who quickly nodded, and he turned his gaze back to Darby. "Nah, I wouldn't."  
  
"Oh, goody!" Darby cried in a song-song voice. She rose from her seat, moving around Jim's chair and grabbing his hand, yanking him to his feet. "Very well, then," she said in a lower voice as she guided Jim to the middle of the floor.  
  
Deliciously in time with the music beat, Darby placed Jim's left hand on the lowest part of her hip, snaked her hand about his neck, and clasped their free hands together. She looked into his watery steel gray eyes and emitted a high-pitched squeak before they both were taken into the many dancing couples.  
  
As she had already concluded, Jim was not a very grand dancer, and being drunk, half out of his mind was not aiding one bit. Darby danced on her toes and led the lumbering man twirling about to where Spot and the red head were. "Oh, Jim, isn't this fun!" she squealed, her hair bouncing behind her.  
  
Jim only released a groan and broke away from her grasp, diving a few feet away and disgorging his guts out.  
  
Darby let out a small sigh and turned around, to see Spot had stopped dancing and was staring at her with a playful fire in his intense eyes. His breathing heavy, his dirty blonde hair falling in his face, and his top button undone due to the feverish heat in the confined room, he let his grip of the red head lax, and strode over to Darby, a slight smile on his lips. Darby only kept her eyebrow raised and her blue eyes uninterested.  
  
There was a fast break in the music, and he ran his hands through his hair, and began to move his feet in an intricate jig, his scoffed shoes tapping against the hardwood. He glanced up at her as his feet moved fluidly about.  
  
Darby only sighed and quickly picked up her feet, removing her broken heels that had came from Rome, throwing them to the nearest person. Picking up her trailing scarlet dress, she duplicated the jig, as Spot watched her with wide eyes. She bounded about in a circle, hitch kicking, her bright eyes on Spot. He then joined her, and Darby was spurred on by the enthusiastic clapping to the beat the spectators gave them.  
  
She collapsed into him with feverish laughter. He released a cry and began to twirl about in circles.  
  
Darby fancied she was in a glorious, dizzying dream. The never-halting, quickstep music filled her ears, as she grasped onto Spot's suspenders and leaned back, watching the world spinning upside down, her hair blowing wildly about.  
  
She picked her head up once again to see Spot gazing at her with a mischievous glimmer in his eyes and wearing a marvelous smile. She released a drunken cry as he pulled her close, their elbows linking, as they spun about in a circle. Whether it was due to the force of gravity or of rapturous lightheadedness, Darby allowed Spot to swing her about, as she laughed hysterically, not being able to pick her head up.  
  
The music now ceased and a faster, more rapid contredanse now began. Spot jerked her body so she was now standing upright, sharing in her drunk with wildness demeanor.  
  
She closed her eyes tightly and fell into him, laughing wildly, "No, Spot, no!"  
  
He only grinned as he let her fall back with slack, grabbing his wrists into hers, spinning on their heels in one dizzying circle. Spot released a cry as Darby let out a high pitched laugh, closing her eyes against the nauseating motion.  
  
And as soon as it had started, the music ceased. They both halted and regarded each other, breathing heavy, slicked with perspiration, and smiles adorning their lips.  
  
"C'mon, Dahby," Spot heaved, "I t'ink we'se needs some refreshments."  
  
Darby nodded her head in agreement, as she allowed Spot to take her hand and lead her off the floor and over to the tables. Weaving through the dancing couples, he espied a table at which an arm-wrestling match was in session. Reaching over the dueling men, he stole two glasses of alcohol, handing one to Darby who polished it off in one gulp.  
  
Spot stared at her incredulously.  
  
She wore a proud smile. "What? You don't think a lady of my caliber can drink?"  
  
Spot was poised to answer when Darby released a shriek, stealing over to the table. "Oh, arm-wrestling!" she cried. "When I was little the two little boy cooks would play this! They taught me but it's been so long!" She tapped one gentleman on the shoulder who was interlocked in a match. He turned to her.  
  
"Oh, I remember you! Butch! It's me! Miss Darby Rockwell!"  
  
The man gave her a peculiar looking, knowing that she of course was already blasted.  
  
Darby fixated her hands upon her hips. "Well why are you looking at me like that? Move over so I can play!"  
  
The man warily cast a glance to his opponent who simply shrugged.  
  
He turned once again to Darby. "Be me guest," he said, arising.  
  
Darby squealed and immediately took his place in the chair, yet not before reaching over the table and placing her opponent's cigarette in-between her lips. "Now, you musn't be scared," she said matter-of-factly, propping her elbow upon the table. She looked at the man with wide blue eyes. "Well, come on then! Don't be scared, place your elbow on the table, now."  
  
The man cast a backward glance at friends as a snicker rippled throughout them. "Alright, girly, alright."  
  
He clasped his left hand into Darby's right and immediately went to slam her arm to the wooden table when, in an inhuman burst of strength, he found his arm on the harsh splintered top of the table causing the glasses to quiver with the force.  
  
He peered up to see Darby with smugness radiating from her features, the cigarette smoke streaming from he mouth. "Fancy that, you lose."  
  
Immediately, the men around her erupted into cheers.  
  
Darby released a sigh and slid the chair back, causing it to scrape against the floor. "Look, Spot! I won! I wuh--"  
  
Alas, Darby Rockwell was not able to conclude her statement when she fell into Spot, blacked out from the consumption of alcohol.  
  
***  
  
It was the fantastic waves of nausea and the marvelous pounding in her skull that found her first and then the searing cold of the black December night.  
  
Darby awoke with a start, not even, taking to heed the fact that she was situated on a dock, and pulled herself on her hands and knees to the edge of the wooden structure, regurgitating all the wonderful alcohol into the river.  
  
She simply lay there, her head and left arm dangling from the edge, her not paying attention to her tangles of flaxen hair that blew in the glacial winds. The tornado that was ripping through her insides was too excruciatingly unbearable, and somehow she felt as though lying on her stomach soothed it.  
  
A small laugh sliced through the night. "Hey, so ya finally awake."  
  
With a moan she lifted her head to see Spot Conlon sitting next to her, his legs dangling over the edge of the pier, skipping pebbles in the glassy surface of the water, shattering the image of the stars and the moon. She let her head fall back once more to the dock, yet this time she faced him.  
  
"Go to hell," she grunted.  
  
He laughed and skipped another rock again. "You asked foah it," he said warningly.  
  
She let out a deep cry as she placed a hand to her forehead trying to be rid of the awful thudding sensation. "I asked to die? How could I ask for a slow, agonizing death?"  
  
Spot sighed. "Ah, Dahby ya ain't dyin'. Ya jist havin' ya foist hangovah."  
  
Darby, intrigued at his words, slowly brought herself into a sitting position, yet found the nausea to much and leaned over, placing her head on her elbows. "And what, may I ask, if a hangover?"  
  
He released a laugh. "A hangovah is what ya havin' now. Have one too many drinks and it feel like ya dyin'. But, Christ, I know ya small but ya only had one drink--"  
  
A sudden recollection came to Darby. "No, while you were dancing with that- girl-I had a bottle of whiskey--"  
  
"WHISKEY?" Spot shouted, causing her to almost burst into tears at the way it aggravated her pounding head. "Jesus Christ, Dahby, no wondah ya feel like shit."  
  
Darby raised her head slightly to glare up at him through her wild hair. "Don't yell. And I do not have a hangover. Hangovers are for people like you."  
  
Spot looked taken aback. "People like me? I'se so sahrry ta tell ya, sweetheart, but ya gonna git ya share of hangovahs jist like I did--" A wicked grin played on his lips. "Jist like ya liddle boyfriend ya were dancin' with--"  
  
This in turn caused Darby to release a grand cry of protest as her forehead hit the dock. "I wouldn't have danced with him if you hadn't gone and danced with that bitch."  
  
Spot cocked a brow, interested. "Oh, if I wouldn't have danced with da bitch, aye? Well what if I said dat da bitch was Adelle?"  
  
Darby raised her head and presented him with a death glare. "You fantastic-- "  
  
Spot broke into stitches and waved his hands in front of him. "No need to go callin' me names, there. Dat wasn't Adelle. Don't even know who she was. Jist did it ta make ya come out and dance."  
  
"Well," Darby sniffed. "You sure did weave your magic spell. It's not right to go about making young ladies jealous. It ruins our complexions."  
  
Spot's jaw dropped as he regarded her mischievously. "I made YOU jealous?"  
  
Darby immediately sat up, the cold winds chilling her to her bone, obviously flustered. "No-that is NOT, most definitely NOT what I meant--"  
  
"You'se only makin' a comparison, right?" he asked, leaning closer to her, obviously relishing in having the upper hand.  
  
Darby pulled back, baffled. "I-I-where the hell are we anyhow?" she inquired stormily.  
  
Spot's gaze flickered past her before interlocking with her eyes. "Da lodgin' house."  
  
"The lodging house!" she cried indignantly. "If you thought for one moment, sir, that you could drag me up to one of your little bunks drunk blue out of my mind and just--"  
  
Spot fell back, his glimmering eyes stark with his crimson cheeks. "I nevah would do dat."  
  
Darby cocked a brow. "Hum. That's not what I heard. Rambling on for ten minutes about only a portion of your conquests. That you've seduced nearly every woman in the tri-state area."  
  
Alas, she halted as Spot's features seemed to darken. "Yeah, and who da hell did ya here dat from? Findin' out information on me?"  
  
She fell back, unable to find the words. Instead, she watched as he angrily threw back his arm and pitched a stone into the water, and as it ruptures the stillness of it.  
  
Darby suddenly felt ashamed. "I-I'm sorry," she quietly said.  
  
Spot abruptly turned to her, incredulous. "What?"  
  
She regarded him, wide-eyed. "I said, I'm sorry."  
  
He snorted and shook his head, his scarf picking up in a howling gust of wind. "D'you know why I'm even with you right now?"  
  
Darby suddenly felt her interest being ignited. She shook her head, causing the pounding to tenfold.  
  
Spot raised his gaze from the dark waters to her. "Because, you'se a bitch."  
  
Darby elicited an angry noise and fell back, yet Spot only smiled. "Yep, ya a bitch and ya arrogant and ya proud. Not like anyone I eveh met. And who evah told ya dat's right. I usually do sleep with 'em all. But you, you are sharp and ya have a comeback foah everything-Jesus, I'se ramblin' here. Ya jist so damn interestin' ta tawk to."  
  
Yet, Darby did not seem to comprehend the meaning behind Spot Conlon's speech. She only had heard his first statement. She raised herself up indignantly. "I'm a bitch? I'm a bitch? Well, I do declare! At least I don't go waltzing about making other's lives absolutely hellish! First, sir, you wake me up at the crack of dawn yelling out your dreadful headlines! They you inquire if I would like to go to dinner, no shall I say make me back up to you little Adelle! And then you bring me to a baseborn tavern and get me absolutely drunk out of my--"  
  
Darby Rockwell's words died in an instant. She must have been blind by petty rage, for she never saw it coming. She only felt Spot Conlon's cold lips press against hers. And he then suddenly pulled away, leaving Darby absolutely stunned and breathless staring at him wide eyed as he regarded her, breathing heavy.  
  
And Darby could only think of one thing to do at that moment. She suddenly leaned over and pressed her lips against Spot's and he soon returned the favor. Despite the glacial weather, the coldness cracked, ruptured and all either could feel was a sweet, hot temptation. Darby released a small noise as Spot pressed more passionately, violent alarms and hues erupting in her mind. Her hands were raking through his hair when she felt herself suddenly give way and her back fell against the dock, Spot falling with her. Darby moved her hands to the sides of his face, desperate for more of the wonderful warmth. Spot propped himself on his elbows, then his spread palms, raising his arms taunt.  
  
Alas, it was Darby that broke the embrace as she felt the effects of her grand old hangover work their magic and she once again was leaning over the side of the dock, as Spot sat laughing slightly, his hair absolutely disheveled and Darby's red lipstick covering the lower half of his face like a comical red beard. "I think it's time we git ya home, Dahby."  
  
***  
  
Darby lay in the delectable warmth of the goose-down bedding, safe and locked away in John Rockwell's immense palace for at least one more night.  
  
She released a sigh into the dark room. The princess had been rescued for a blip in time from the confines of her evil stepparents and had denied the behemoth her hand, all while having grand old time with the prince whom had swept her off her feet.  
  
The prince. The behemoth. Spot. David.  
  
What was it that so desperately lured her to Spot Conlon, newsboy, Darby had not a clue. Perhaps she was only indulging herself in him, perhaps this was a petty holiday romance. She of course envied him, envied his freedom. But did she adore him?  
  
Darby did not even have to delve too far to fathom an answer. Flickers from that night's wild whirlwind flashed back to her. Oh, and when he had led her home. She had been on the balcony and he on the trellis, his eyes full of absolute adoration. And then their lips had met again and Darby still reasoned she did not fall off the balcony. She had felt like that damn Juliet from William Shakespeare's play. All that would have been needed to make the writing correct were if she would have opened her mouth and cried, "Romeo, Romeo where for art thou, Romeo?" thus beginning the poetic relaying of romantic lines-  
  
But fairytales were not true. Her abominably strict governess and numerous dull professors had taught her that. It already was written in stone that sometime in the near future she would indeed become Mrs. David Van Wyck-  
  
But Katrina was a dreamer. She had been waiting on pins and needles in Darby's bed when she arrived home, just bursting to know what had happened. And all through the telling of the story Katrina had made swooning sounds and stricken sighs. Katrina rather fancied that Darby was going to run off with Spot Conlon into the sunset and live happily ever after.  
  
Darby sighed again. He had wanted to see her again. She had promised to rendezvous with him, only inconspicuously if he sold his papers outside the wrought-iron gate. But, now, she was second-guessing her decision-  
  
A soft knock was suddenly heard on the door, as it slightly cracked open, splashing the darkened room with a dim yellow light.  
  
"Darby? Darby? Are you awake?"  
  
It was Mrs. Rockwell.  
  
Darby released a false yawn and stretched her arms above her head. "Um, yes mother?"  
  
Ava Rockwell approached her daughter's bed, her hair in curlers and in her nightdress, carrying a soft lantern. "I just wanted to see how you are feeling."  
  
Darby was about to reply that she was feeling superb, when, alas, she felt the linger effects of her first hangover once again as she leaned over the side of her bed parallel to her mother and regurgitated what was left in her stomach. And suddenly flashing through Darby's mind made her remember the alcohol and the tavern and wild dancing and Him and all her doubts were washed away.  
  
And Ava Rockwell only stepped back, somewhat disgusted. "Hum, that Spanish Influenza certainly is horrid!" 


	10. Chapter Ten

CHAPTER TEN  
  
Early that morning, the Rockwell's immaculate, snow laded walk was stark with violent hues.  
  
It was Sunday and that meant it was the time for the ever-so wonderful brunch would be occurring. It was an endeavor, of course, that Darby despised with an utmost passion: returning home from a long and quite boring ceremony conducted in Latin at church, all of New York's finest in their bright garments. Everyone would sit around the table eating enormous amounts of food (not quite breakfast, not quite lunch) and stuffing themselves like turkeys. Then the men would then retire to the parlor which would be filled with cigar smoke and clinking glasses of brandy in a matter of moments, where they would congratulate themselves on their spectacular amount of capital and discuss how the economy was going to hell in a hand basket. The ladies would remain at the table, trading shallow gossip and of course raising their thin noses at the "new money." And the children would reside in Darby's room, all impossibly narcissistic, conceited girls with vain principles and nothing better to do than laugh flirtatiously when ever Van Prick would peek his head in, causing Darby to groan.  
  
Now, of course, Darby could hear the audible voices radiating from the front lawn. She sighed as she reclined more into the reassuring warmth of her bed. Her doltish mother had fancied the hangover just a case of the Spanish Influenza.  
  
At least it had gotten her out of church, where most of the time she bowed her head and closed her eyes and nodded off, avidly claiming afterwards that she was in sincere state of prayer, causing her parents to coo. Perhaps she could also manage to squirm her way out of the brunch ordeal, also. Mrs. Marks had been to her bedside every other minute, carrying trays upon trays of exquisite food, Darby turning her head away for she still could not look at the provisions without having an acidly flavor start to rise in her throat. And, perhaps, just perhaps, the followers of David Van Wyck and their vapid discussions would be barred from her room until the following week.  
  
The voices were getting louder. A high female voice could be heard, "Oh, DAVID, will you STOP it?"  
  
A shudder tangoed its way down Darby's spine. Most likely, that high, nasal voice belonged to Airabella Arnside, the most nauseating creature ever to be so blessed with life on this planet. She of course was madly infatuated with David Van Wyck and would not bat an eyelash in second thought about marrying him that very day and exactly nine months to the day later bearing his child.  
  
Just that sheer thought was enough to make almost Darby hurl yet again. She must have lay there for what seemed like decades, listening to the whole band whine pettily like a pack of underfed dogs when she heard the audible yells.  
  
"EXTRA! EXTRA! EXTRA!"  
  
Her ears perked and her breath bated.  
  
"EXTRA! EXTRA! EXTRA! POLITICIAN'S DAUGHTAH SEEN AFTAH DARHK WIT SCOUNDREL!"  
  
Darby immediately sat in bed, her bright hair falling to one side. A smile crept over her lips and she elicited a screech. She leapt from the bed and hurled herself out of the bedroom, nearly toppling over Mrs. Marks who stood in the doorframe, carrying a sterling silver tray of appetizers.  
  
"Where are you going, Miss?" the plump cook called down to Darby, as she thundered down the stairs.  
  
Darby halted her hair and eyes wild. "It is a glorious day, it is not Mrs. Marks?"  
  
"But you're not going out in just that, Miss, are you? It's freezing--- out." She stopped and sighed for Darby had already dashed through the parlor and the main door was wide open, the cold winds entering the mansion. "Crazy girl," she muttered under her breath, as she set down the gleaming tray and entered the room, intent of making the bed.  
  
The snow had ceased, alas, that did not mean that the walk was not searing. Darby flung herself out the front door, the blistering coldness immediately hitting the marrow of her bones and causing most of the party to suppress their conversations mid sentence and regard her as though she had gone clinically insane.  
  
Yes, the whole group was indeed there and looking quite appalled. There was Ava and John Rockwell, arms linked, managing to look opulent and furious and disgusted all in one expression. George Frost, John Rockwell's law associate, his prissy wife Paulette, and their vain daughter, Sadey brought up the rear, quite sharing in the Rockwell's reactions. There also was Robert and Christina Van Wyck, Richard and Juliet Arnside, Ava's sister Rosanna and husband Nathaniel Delecroise and their daughter Gracie. And of course, there was David and Airabella, her perfectly gloved hand on the breast of his charcoal gray tweed overcoat.  
  
Yet, Darby saw none of them. Her gaze fell past them, beyond them and to the wrought iron gates resembling great ebony citadels, for Spot Conlon stood behind them, motionless, a stack of newspapers resting on his left shoulder.  
  
Her pulse began to race with a vengeance until she thought her veins would explode. Oh, if only she could to the gates and reach out to him-  
  
"Darby, what on earth are you doing?"  
  
Darby's eyes immediately snapped to her mother. "What, mother?"  
  
Ava Rockwell subtly turned over her shoulder, smiling apologetically to her guests. "What are you doing, dear?" Her voice was low with a hint of carefully bridled fury as she neared her daughter.  
  
"What am I doing, mother?" Darby inquired with a note of befuddlement, for she was too involved in regarding Spot that she did not take heed of her mother.  
  
Ava released a sigh and turned to the party, offering them a repentant smile. "Now, dear, you know that you are ill! You shouldn't be out here in this dreadful weather!" She forced a laugh and a smile. "Honestly, this dreadful Spanish Influenza can invoke you to do such silly things!"  
  
This caused Dr. and Mrs. Delecroise to exchange raised eyebrows, the latter asking in a hushed voice, "Spanish Influenza?" The doctor merely nodded his head and straightened and gritted under his teeth, "Never you mind, Rosanna, you know your sister and her wild flights of fancy."  
  
Darby, of course, did not hear her mother's prattling for her eyes were trained on Spot Conlon's orbs of jade fire. With a simple shrug, she was out of her mother's grasp and padding down the steps, past the guests. She was nearing Spot and his smile against his wind-whipped skin was glowing. It was like a marvelous dream, the dreary weather and the dreary guests were evicted and only she and Spot remained. And then she felt the strong arm rap itself about her torso and the dream shattered into a million shards and reality brutally hit her. She shook her head back to consciousness. She averted her wide blue eyes up. David Van Wyck stood before her, his burnt umber eyes glaring with arrogance. The blistering coldness suddenly washed over her and she released a choke and involuntarily fell into him.  
  
"Oh, Darby girl, is it that cold?" he asked with exaggerated concern.  
  
Darby stammered an incoherent reply and turned her eyes over his shoulder to see that Spot's smile had dropped and in his eyes-possibly an illusion of the snow-heavy question marks hung. She released another small sigh, dropping her gaze, the chill searing against her feet.  
  
David released a hearty laugh. "Oh, Darby, you're sick! Why are you out in this weather!" With a flourish, he had placed his hands about her and she was suddenly lifted into the air in his arms.  
  
Murmurs of sickening coos reverberated throughout the brunch guests and Airabella Arnside elicited a snort, tossing her pert little nose into the air.  
  
Darby struggled out of his grasp, the rough tweed digging into her bare skin.  
  
Another laugh rippled from David. "Oh, Darby, stay still, we must get you inside!"  
  
"No!" Darby yelled, her flashing eyes meeting his.  
  
David arched an eyebrow. "Come now, Darby. Be a good lass, won't you, and stop your fussing. I know that dreadful Spanish Influenza is ravaging your body, making you act like quite the little mad hatter."  
  
Darby's breath lodged in her throat and she ceased her struggles and fell lax in his grip, her skin paling. It was in the way he had phrased his statement that had struck a chord of fear in her heart; it was as though he knew the truth of last night.  
  
He nodded, his eyes proud. "That's a good girl, now let's get you inside."  
  
She emitted a helpless noise, throwing her gaze over his shoulder. Spot Conlon stood behind those wrought-iron gates, and even at that distance, she could read the confusion and injury in his eyes.  
  
Oh, how Darby Rockwell wished she could cup her hands over her mouth and shout, "It's not true! It's not true! I think you are wonderful and what you see isn't what it seems!"  
  
Yet, she didn't. She only stared with helpless and futile eyes at him. She knew she adored him, but how in the hell did he expect her to unseat all the morals she had ever been taught, and scream at this newsboy in front of all New York's finest that she had dreamt of him and had a longing desire to feel the warmth of his embrace? But she just couldn't. Her mother's vicious discriminations and the haughty theories of the elite had been the keystone of her refined ways. Deep down in the abyss of her soul, she knew that she was not like them. She knew that having the most exhilarating time of her life last night with him was not a fluke. Yet, she was weak. She knew she had always been weak. She yearned to break free and run wild, yet she never could. She despised the values of the wealthy, yet she could not help but lapse into their judgmental state of speech.  
  
Oh, if only there was some way Darby could make him understand. It was absolutely painful staring into his eyes.  
  
She released a choke, trying desperately not to break into sobs. Though, even if she did Ava Rockwell would most likely just brush them off as some ludicrous side effect of the Spanish Influenza.  
  
It was as though David Van Wyck knew of the inner turmoil that she was experiencing. Without raising her head, she could feel the scorch of the smugness that radiated off his smile.  
  
Darby released another constricted sob, only raising her eyes as her father's deep bark penetrated the chilled air. "Hey, you! Newsboy! Get out of here right now! Right this minute before I alert the authorities!"  
  
Through vision blurred by tears, Darby watched as Spot's gaze flickered from her to Mr. Rockwell and as he jumped and slowly turned.  
  
Darby hesitated until he had disappeared behind the thick veil of newly falling snow before her hysterics here unsheathed. "NO! NO! IT'S NOT WHAT IT SEEMS! IT'S NOT WHAT IT SEEMS! DON'T GO! DON'T GO!"  
  
Many of the women gasped at the display of vocals and many shook their heads. Ava Rockwell regrettably swished about her guests, soothing them with the response that "that dreadful Spanish Influenza is making poor Darby act outright insane" as the brunch party climbed the stairs and entered the relieving warmth of the Rockwell estate, the audible cries and shrieks of Darby still filling their ears.  
  
***  
  
Most likely, the brunch party had gone off without a hitch and the men were going to the parlor and the women remaining seated at the grand table and now the girls should be ascending the stairs at any moment.  
  
Darby released a high-pitched shriek as she abruptly sat up in bed. Her angry glare fell to the door, the door that was indeed locked.  
  
After David had so chivalrously carted the hysterical girl to her room, Ava Rockwell had waited with a smile until he had disappeared down the hallway before she turned to Darby.  
  
Of course, Darby did not remember her mother's speech word for word, yet she retained the gist of it. Ava was deathly worried about her daughter's outbursts and thought it best that Darby skip brunch, and as an extra precaution, she was going to lock the door.  
  
Darby had launched into screams and Ava had almost lost her temper, claiming that she didn't want Darby to hurt herself. Mrs. Rockwell had left the room, the lock sounding tenfold in Darby's ears as she carried on and threw herself against the grand wooden door.  
  
That had occurred an hour ago. Since then, Darby had surrendered and sat on her bed, her side aching and her head pounding.  
  
Darby exhaled and arose, padding over to the door. She pondered for a moment throwing her body against the door again, yet that passion had been a high and she suddenly felt weary.  
  
She sighed and collapsed against the door. This had been quite an interesting day. Never in all her sixteen years on the earth had she ever reacted like-that. Her mother should be thanking her lucky stars that she had the old story of the Spanish Influenza and how it was wrecking Darby's sanity to fall back on.  
  
Yet, perhaps Darby had gone insane.  
  
A small smile danced upon her chaffed lips.  
  
Spot Conlon. That damned Spot Conlon. What in the hell had he infected her with? Why, after one nocturnal excursion with him, was she howling and screaming about like a banshee in front of all of New York's elite?  
  
She minutely shook her head. She didn't know. She didn't know at all.  
  
His deep, impossibly sad eyes filled her mind. Oh, Christ. What did he think? What had been streaming through his head when he had saw David Van Prick sweep her off her feet and into his arms.  
  
Darby released a sharp hiss and threw the back of her skull against the door. Alas, all thoughts were annihilated as she heard the faint clicking of heels against the gleaming wooden floorboards of the hallway.  
  
"Jesus, David, I mean, really, what do you see in her?"  
  
A stifled giggle was released.  
  
Darby cocked a brow and placed her right ear against the door. As with the usual routine, the dear charming band of girls were coming upstairs to indulge in enlightened chatter.  
  
"No, but I mean, really, tell me, Davey, what you see in her?" Airabella Arnside's lordly voice pierced the air.  
  
"Airabella, please! Do you know if she's asleep yet or not?" Gracie Delecroise. What a charming cousin.  
  
Airabella sniffed. "Well, I really don't care if she hears me or not! All I'm saying is that I've know the girl's been crazy for years! I mean, Christ, she is always about with that Irish bitch-what's her name?"  
  
"Katrina Van Witt?" Sadey Frost's cold voice concluded as Darby shifted her weight and desperately pressed her ear to the door more.  
  
Airabella released a high laugh. "Oh, yes, the leprechaun! Katrina Van Witt, that's correct. Well, anyway, you hear the stories. She is always seen with those lower class ruffians--"  
  
"Newsboys?" Gracie hopefully piped in.  
  
"Newsboys! Right!" Airabella cried with superiority. "I mean, I do not see why you would want to touch one of the damn things with a ten foot pole, but if you HAVE to see them then at least to it in private!"  
  
The audience broke up into laughter, just causing Airabella to continue.  
  
"I pity Mr. and Mrs. Rockwell, actually. Having such a burden as she! But you know the whole family is tarnished. My mother told me that Mrs. Rockwell is a heavy drinker--"  
  
"NO!"  
  
"Yes! I would be, too, having kin like Darby Rockwell. And John Rockwell, well, let's just say that Daddy told me his business isn't doing to well--"  
  
"NO!"  
  
"Yes! Some other law firm sprouted up in New York and it attracting all sorts of business. Made Rockwell desperately afraid, so--" Her voice dropped an octave. "-so he got involved with the mob!"  
  
"NO!"  
  
Darby recoiled from the door in a state of shock. Her brain whirled. The mob? John Rockwell, all-powerful attorney, involved with the MOB? She suddenly felt her trachea constrict wonderfully, yet she immediately pressed her ear back to the door.  
  
"-that pie! Davey, why did you not just call off the engagement then? I mean the only reason that you must be betrothed to her is because her daddy is so damned wealthy! I pity you, Davey, really I do! Having to go about life, knowing one day you will have to settle down forever with that-that- impossible bitch! Davey, you could have ANY girl you wanted, just tell me, why Darby Rockwell?"  
  
Darby's could feel her pulse pounding terrifically in her head and her breath bate as she waited for the reply to break the silence.  
  
"Well," David slowly began. "It's not all that miserable. Once trained she will be a hard worker-a hard worker both inside and outside the bedroom."  
  
"EWH!" the girls' playfully appalled gasps sounded.  
  
Darby felt an immense wave of nausea flood her being as David lowered the timbre of his voice. "Well, this was supposed to be a little secret, but at the next dinner party that Ava throws?"  
  
"Uh-huh?" Gracie queried, as though on edge.  
  
"It will be a celebration of our betrothal."  
  
"But-but what if she doesn't concede?"  
  
David's fantastically arrogant laughter whittled its way through the door and into Darby's heart, chilling it. "She will be oppressed. She will have to. No apple pies will be served and she will accept the ring. My father doesn't give a fuck about the girl or the Rockwells, just their splendid amount of capital!"  
  
Airabella released a high in pitch laugh. "Oh, David, you are so evil!"  
  
David exaggeratedly sighed. "Oh, do stop, Miss Arnside, you are breaking my heart!"  
  
Airabella elicited a giggle, yet stopped as she head Darby's audible gasp from the opposite side of the door.  
  
"Air--"  
  
"Shhh!" Airabella sharply hissed. "I thought you said she was asleep."  
  
David replied. "You said you didn't care--"  
  
Darby reclined back and sat cross-legged. She began a forward and backward leaning motion with her upper body. Concede? Dinner party? Oppressed? Next dinner party? It was as though she were in a trace.  
  
Oh, Christ, where was that rat poison?  
  
"David, do you know how to open the door?" Airabella's hideously low voice seeped through the door.  
  
"Yes, last night her mother allowed me egress into her room and the bloody old bitch forgot to take the key out. I have it."  
  
"Well then open the door!"  
  
Darby sat in sheer stunned horror as she heard the fitting of the key into the lock, as the lock clicked, as the knob turned, and as the door slowly opened-  
  
David stood before them all, his hair as gleaming as his smile. "Darby!" he cried, regarding her on the plush carpeting. "What on earth are you doing?"  
  
It took a few moments for the sound to be transferred to Darby's brain. She finally averted her gaze skyward to him, her eyes burning with a passionate hate. "You. You. You."  
  
David leaned back, his smile growing to enhance his glittering white teeth. "Yes, Darby, it is me."  
  
Darby shook her head, her eyes narrowed into slits. "You. You atrocious bastard!" she screeched, suddenly springing to her feet, eliciting gasps from the group.  
  
With the bat of an eye, she had pounced on David Van Wyck, taking in the look of sheer surprise on his face as she threw him backward. The girls picked up the hems of their opulent dresses and uttered screams as they jumped back, allowing just enough space for David to slam painfully to the hardwood floor on his back.  
  
"I would never be wed to you, you disgusting pig!" Darby howled as she clawed in a blind fury at him.  
  
"Get off ME!" David bellowed, grasping a handful of her wild flaxen hair and bringing his arm up, jerking her head up so she released a cry.  
  
David was at least keeping Darby at bay when a few moments later furious clicking and gasps and shouts abounded throughout the air.  
  
"Oh, no, Darby, no! What are you doing!" Ava Rockwell shrieked, dashing down the hallway and over to her hysterical daughter.  
  
In all, it took three of the brunch guests to hoist the unrelenting Darby off of David, while the rest helped the latter from the ground, dusting him off and hovering about him.  
  
Two strong sets of arms were twisted about Darby as she felt herself being forcefully being dragged back to her room.  
  
"Oh, my! The poor child has lost it!"  
  
"That dreadful influenza!"  
  
"I AM NOT SICK!" Darby screeched, desperately writhing out of the death grips.  
  
"Oh, John, call the doctor! Out baby's sick!" Ava sobbed through a mountain of borrowed handkerchiefs.  
  
Darby uttered a scream, and gave one last effort to break free. Not just to break free physically, but mentally as well. To be free and run to Spot and tell him that it had all been a simple mistake. It was a grand struggle, alas, she finally fell lax, weary and exhausted and allowed herself to be dragged to her room.  
  
As she was being shoved through the door, she quickly craned her head over her shoulder to see David Van Wyck staring at her with smug eyes. "I know, Darby. I know!"  
  
It didn't take a sleuth as utterly genius as Sherlock Holmes to connect the dots.  
  
"NO!" Darby screamed, yet the white door slammed shut, stifling her cries. 


	11. Chapter Eleven

Note from Author: Thanks to all those who have reviewed! Now, be good little children and review! Enjoy--  
  
CHAPTER ELEVEN  
  
"I can see it all now, I in a lovely dress of black lace--"  
  
"Darby, stop."  
  
"I walk down the aisle, the organ accompanying my journey with a death march--"  
  
"Darby-stop!"  
  
"Where I will be joined in holy matrimony, till death do us part, in sickness and in health before the eyes of God to my lawful wedded husband, the wonderful dark god Satan making an earthly appearance as David Charles Van Wyck--"  
  
"DARBY STOP!"  
  
"STOP? HOW CAN I STOP?" Darby Rockwell screeched, slamming the French doors with a passion, causing the panes of glass to shudder. She thrust her gaze to Katrina Van Witt, her eyes blazing, as the latter sat perched in the plush maroon chair, her pale skin stark against her green eyes.  
  
Reading the fearful surprise in Katrina's eyes caused the ardor to wash away from Darby. She sighed and her body visibly collapsed, and she sunk into the chair mate, burying her face in her hands.  
  
"I can't do it, Kat, I can't do it anymore," Darby sighed, battling to control her emotions.  
  
Katrina softened and pushed her chair closer to Darby, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Yes you can--"  
  
Darby violently shook off the embrace, her eyes blazing like blue fire. "No, I can't. You don't understand! How would you understand? You are not in my position!"  
  
Katrina slammed back into the chair in a state of frustration. "Darby," she cried, desperately trying to restrain the temper in her accent. "How can I help you if you won't let me?"  
  
Darby released a snort, rising from the chair and once again retreating to the French doors. She rested her forehead on the cold glass, relishing in the coolness against her hot brow.  
  
Two days. Two days ago since she had assaulted David Van Wyck. Two days since she had last seen Spot Conlon. In that time span and endless procession, ranging from doctors to exorcists had paraded through that doorway. Although nothing had been found physically wrong with her, the doctors had speculated that she was just having some type of delusions and they would subside. The medicine had been plenty of rest. That meant locking the doors, main door to bedroom and French doors alike. It had only been when Katrina had clumsily scaled the trellis and jimmied open the French doors that she could parley with Darby.  
  
Darby suddenly turned around when she felt a soft hand on her shoulder. "I know you're upset, Darby, devastated more like it. I know I could never fathom what you are experiencing, but I love you to death, Darby, just let me help you. Please."  
  
The few sentences struck a chord, which vibrated in her heart, and though it was not one of Katrina's usual passionate, verbose lectures, it was all the more powerful. Without even realizing it, Darby was in hysterics with tears rushing down her cheeks like raindrops in a summer storm, collapsed on the bed.  
  
"Oh, Kat, it's not fair! I never really took David Van Wyck as a serious threat. I mean, yes, there were allusions, always allusions, but I regarded them more as a stupid fairy tale and nothing more. I thought that I could somehow writhe out of the betrothal if I would utterly upset him or his parents-but nothing works! Don't you see, nothing works? I have tried everything in all these years that I could possibly think of, and nothing has worked! I swear, Kat, THEY JUST DON'T CARE. They don't care anymore! I can be as impossibly hideous as I want, but refuse to walk down that goddamn aisle, and they would have someone push me down and say the vowels for me just so they can get their capital! Their bloody money! They are so enslaved to greed that it blinds them. They don't give a damn about their offspring or their unhappiness, they just care about uniting their massive fortunes so the money stays in the family and isn't squandered and so they can be looked after in their old age. They don't care--"  
  
Katrina petted Darby's hair like some expensive Persian cat as she shushed her. "Darby, I'm sure they cared once. They must have. They are your parents, for Christ's sake--"  
  
Darby released herself from Katrina and sat hunched on the bed, gingerly reddening her eyes by brushing away the crystal tears. She slowly shook her head. "No, they never cared. If they had cared then they would not make me marry that bastard. They wouldn't be forcing me to--"  
  
Katrina was now trying to be the level headed one. "But, Darby, plenty of people are placed in arranged marriages--"  
  
"BUT NOT WITH DAVID VAN WYCK!" Darby's sharp as a shard of cracked glass shriek ripped through the room.  
  
Katrina rolled her eyes, before collecting her emotions. "Darby, but you never got this upset over it before--"  
  
"That's because I had two choices then, Kat. That's because then I was stupid and naïve." She arose from the bed, returning to the French doors and regarded the swirling gusts of snow outside. "I always thought that I could either say yes or no. I mean, deep down I knew it always would occur in good time, but I never forced myself to believe it. I never could believe it. I knew I wanted more in life that to become David Van fucking Wyck's little wifey and follow him around like a beaten and broken dog on his campaign trails. I knew that I didn't want to age into one of those withered old bats who reek of money and enter balls in a flourish of opulence, yet not knowing anyone. Sure, I would know their names, but I still would retain haughty notions of them. I would never have any companions. I can't live like that. I can't become my mother--" She trailed off, entranced by the snow, until she slowly turned around to Katrina, holding her wide green eyes. "But now I know that it a reality. I will marry David Van Wyck and become his wife. It shouldn't have been that hard a transition, of course I would spit and holler and put on a fuss, but I of course would have always knew deep down that I would wed him. Yet, now, it is so hard. It shouldn't be like that--"  
  
Darby's eyes averted to the plush carpeting and raised once again to the gusts of immaculate white outside, as Katrina sat on the edge of the bed, solemnly absorbing Darby's words before a knowing smile adorned the corners of her lips.  
  
Darby released a shudder as Katrina joined her, placing a gloved hand on her shoulder. "Why's it so hard, Darby?"  
  
Darby suddenly turned over her shoulder, her blue eyes wide. "I-I don't know."  
  
Katrina stepped back, wearing a smirk as though she knew the answers to the greatest secrets of the universe. "I fancy you correct. Outwardly, you would protest, but you would condition yourself to become use to Van Prick. Though, you say now it is hard to come to terms with marrying him. Why?"  
  
Darby only shook her head.  
  
Katrina continued, her eyes taking on a glassy glitter. "I think that before you were isolated from the outside world. Of course, you yearned to experience it, even the most minute shard of it, but you never did and this helped make the dawning of marrying Van Prick all the easier. You never knew what the true world was like, you could only dream. But, lo and behold, a slice of real life is dropped neatly on to your lap and you fall terribly for it. You have experienced a cut of life and you wish to have more. That's why it's so hard to come to terms with your betrothal. Before you knew only one life, the life of the high and mighty, and that was the lifestyle that you needed to become Mrs. David Van Wyck. But now, now you have experienced a slice of the ways of the world, and you realize that you would give up everything to be there then here. Your mind's back there, not here. Your conditioning had been ruptured. That's why it's so hard."  
  
Darby's eyes were vacant. "In laymen's terms, please?"  
  
Katrina released a disgusted sound as she stepped back, throwing her hands to the air. "FOR Christ's SAKE Darby, you're in love with the newsie!"  
  
Darby retaliated by taking a step back, placing a hand to her heart, and releasing a noise as though mortally taken aback. "ME? In love with the NEWSBOY?" her deep eyes were incredulous. "Pish posh, Katrina--"  
  
Yet Katrina backed Darby into the French doors, her eyes and smile bright. "I'm correct, Darby, aren't eye? You've fallen for him! For the newsie!"  
  
The look of unbelieving adorned Darby's face as the blindly fumbled for the door latch behind her back.  
  
Katrina was in a state of rapture. "Oh, Jesus, Darby, tell me I'm right!"  
  
Darby only released a string of stammers as the latch suddenly clicked and she abruptly pushed the French doors open, the polar air invading the room and blowing her hair forward. She stumbled backwards, the marble searing the bottom of her feet, wrapping her arms about her. "I AM NOT IN LOVE WITH THE NEWSBOY!"  
  
Katrina remained in the doorway, the wind flinging her burnt red hair about. "Then why are you blushing from head to toe! It's the most color that I've seen in you all week!"  
  
Alas, even as Katrina spoke, Darby could feel the fire surging its way through her veins. The words reverberated about her brain, so blunt that she could not comprehend them. "I-please, Kat, I'm Darby Lynn Rockwell, me fall for a newsboy?" she sniffed.  
  
Katrina shook her head, her emerald eyes glimmering. "Ah, Darby, Darby, Darby. I know I'm right. You know I'm right."  
  
Darby thrust her nose to the sky as she quickly strode forward, her entire being numb. With a cry, she was standing on the wonderful plush carpeting, curling her toes and slamming the French doors behind her. She turned over her shoulder to Katrina. "Kat, I have no idea what you are talking about. How could you possibly fathom something--"  
  
"Then that night, why were you about to swoon at the very mention of his name?" Darby shied away from the question, striding past Katrina and to the bed, smoothing a turned-up corner. "I wasn't about to-swoon-over his name. It was just so dreadfully cold out that night--"  
  
Katrina raised her perfectly arched eyebrow. "Well, Darby, you can go babbling on like a damn brook all you like, but it won't sway my opinion." With a smooth motion she had retrieved her dark hunter green scarf from the bed and had wrapped it about her neck, causing it go stark with her hellfire red hair. "All I want to know is: when are you going to go see him?"  
  
Darby stepped back. "Go see him?" she cried incredulously. "Are you out of your mind, Kat? If my parents discover that I am not in bed--"  
  
"I thought you said they didn't give a damn?"  
  
Darby regarded Katrina with a challenge, until she exhaled and collapsed on the bed. "So I go see him, what shall I say? 'Ah, excuse me, I hardly know you but I am madly infatuated with you! And remember the fellow I told you I was destined to marry? Well, I still am but I just wanted to know if you wanted to have another go?'"  
  
Katrina simply nodded. "Sure? Why the hell not?" She padded over to the French doors, her grasp on the gleaming gold handle. "Oh, and Darby, when you say it, say it in the accent. The New York accent. I'm sure it will sound more endearing."  
  
A smile grew upon Darby's lips as she cried, "Oh, you!" and tossed a pillow at Katrina's head, the latter barely missing the blow by suddenly ducking.  
  
Straightening, Katrina pulled open one of the French doors. "Darby, I'm not surprised that you didn't fall. That trellis is awful to climb."  
  
With a smile, Darby watched as Katrina hoisted herself over the balcony, her emerald clothing bright in the white snow, and as she disappeared with great ease.  
  
Darby arose and strode across the room to the immense bay window overlooking the front lawns. She leaned on the padded windowsill, regarding the flurries.  
  
"See Spot Conlon again, Katrina have you lost your mind?" She shook her head. "No, Darby, you've lost you mind."  
  
She released a sigh and slowly made her way over to the bed once more as a voice permeated through the great wooden door and into the room.  
  
"Darby?" It was Ava Rockwell's nasal voice.  
  
"What, mother?" Darby replied in a sharp tone.  
  
"Why aren't you asleep? You need rest like Dr. Bangs said. If you don't get rest you're going to be sick forever and you'll never get better!"  
  
"I'm sorry mother, your wonderful voice woke me up!" Darby hissed with contempt.  
  
There was silence, as though Ava was contemplating the reply. It must have suited her fine for her expensive heels clacked down the hardwood hallway, fading into oblivion.  
  
With a groan, Darby fell back against the bed.  
  
***  
  
Viewed from behind the glimmering glass of the French doors, the night was unusually tranquil. There seemed to be a great net high up in the heavens that caught the snow and the fierce winds had been bridled. The immaculate drifts of snow glittered in the moonlight and matched perfectly with the dark skies and cold stars.  
  
Darby released a long sigh and allowed her eyes to flicker to the unrecognizable figure reflected in the great full-length mirror. Garbed in only her simplest clothing, her wild flaxen hair pulled loosely at the nape of the neck, void of cosmetics, and the look complete with an ebony cloak, the hood pulled over her head, she looked utterly indistinguishable.  
  
What was the point of wearing the grandest clothing when one had indeed lost their mind?  
  
This excursion to the lodging house in the middle of the night, Darby knew, was absolutely ludicrous. What kind of beings lurked in the dark crevices of Brooklyn, she didn't know, and cared not to know, either. Yet, she knew if she were ever going to see Spot Conlon, this would be her final chance. The dinner party where David would fall to his knees and he would slide that blinding, diamond encrusted engagement ring on her finger was happening tomorrow, only a little under twenty hour hours away.  
  
It would be marvelously simplistic to slip out of the palace, past the wrought-iron fence and into the cold December night. Her parents had bustled off over to some fancy affair at the Frost's house, leaving the mansion all but empty, save for the servants tidying up.  
  
Inhaling one last time and averting her gaze from the reflection, Darby stole through the French doors and down the trellis, the journey made quite easier in flats instead of heels. She landed on the fresh snow with a clean thud, and straightened, peering around before dashing to the front yard, down the walk and quietly opening the gates a sliver, sliding past them, shutting them behind her.  
  
Darby walked a few paces, a zephyr blowing up her cotton skirt, though not being able to reach her wool-stocking covered legs, before she halted, and turned around. Every light was lit in the Rockwell mansion, like some gaudy fireball in the darkness.  
  
She shook her head. It seemed impossible that she had called the monstrosity home for the past sixteen years. For the entire span of her life. A sudden sadness washed over her.  
  
If life was anything what Spot Conlon had been like, then she sure had missed a hell of a lot of it.  
  
Another set soon joined the echoing clicking of her heels. Darby cocked her head up to see Mr. Firth walking both of his little terriers. He usually gave her a hearty and warm hello, yet this time he only looked in her direction before straightening his head again.  
  
Darby once more averted her gaze to the snow-laded sidewalk, the moon on her back. It was when she heard an ear-shattering scream that she finally picked her head up, and her breath bated in her throat. She was located in front of the bordello, that very same bordello about to walk into the same bench. Yet this time, it was overflowing with life.  
  
Hearty music pulsated from the bordello as bright light filtered through each window. Women in colorful dresses with their breasts pushed high upon their chests were leaning out windows, waving handkerchiefs at men down below and taunting them playfully. The men shouted and the women screamed.  
  
Darby was snared into the commotion below as a few gentlemen in rumpled suits bumped into her, nearly pitching her to the ground. Without so much as an apology, they had entered the bordello.  
  
She pulled the hood over her brow more, suddenly wishing to be in the safe confines of her goose down bed, yet quickly shook the notion.  
  
"You can't back down now, Darby girl, you have to find him," she murmured to herself, picking up her pace, her shoes crunching against the muddied snow.  
  
If Darby concluded that the bordello surroundings were baseborn, then her mind could not possibly fathom the environment she was situated in now. Tall, burnt out shells of buildings loomed over her, God knows what hiding in their dark cavities. The streets were littered with absolute trash as crooked characters contorted themselves in the dark spaces, their cold eyes burning into Darby, causing her pulse to race tenfold.  
  
She quickened her pace, keeping her eyes to the ground.  
  
Keep your eyes to the ground, keep your eyes to the ground and maybe they won't snatch you. Oh thank God I am not wearing any of my good clothing, her mind raced.  
  
A wild realization entered her mind as the lapping of water filled her ears.  
  
Water. The lodging house had been by a lake or river or sea or something of that sort. Perhaps its just around the-  
  
Alas, her thoughts were crushed as she elicited a scream and stumbled back. Through impossibly wide eyes, she took in the old crone situated before her. The old woman was bent over like some horrible hunchback gone awry, her skin a grotesque shade of pale green under her ripped black dress.  
  
"Child, be good and give old granny your cloak. Old granny is so cold," the crone said in a horrible, cracking voice, reaching her hand out to Darby.  
  
Darby released a marvelous scream and stepped back.  
  
"Child, give cold old granny your cloak!" the crone hissed, and in her attempts suddenly grasped Darby's chin in her rough grasp, pulling her forward.  
  
Darby elicited a cry as she winced away from the woman's elongated nose, skin covered in sickening boils, and oleaginous mass of black hair. "Witch, witch, witch! Let me go! You shan't have my nose for your awful potions!"  
  
With a jerk, she had broken out of the woman's gasps and was running as though Satan himself were on her heels, her shoes crunching the snow, her breathing heavy, a stitch in her side, and her unkempt blowing wildly behind her.  
  
She sprinted until her legs were about to rupture before her entire soul gave out and she collapsed into a mound of snow. As the cold snow leaked through her thin skirt, hot bitter tears found their way down her cheeks.  
  
"Oh, what in the hell was I thinking? Going to see Spot Conlon again? Thinking that I actually had somewhat feelings for him. Thinking that he- Probably out somewhere with that little stumpet Adelle. Oh, Darby, Darby, Darby, how utterly foolish you are. To go chasing down a futile dream. And what about the lodging house? I was drunk out of my goddamn mind when he took me there, probably is on the other side of Brooklyn!" A mad laughter escaped her lips as she added, "But Darby, why are you crying, the lodging house is right above--" She raised her gaze skyward and her jaw dropped completely for a building loomed above her in the night in which a soft light radiated from the windows, casting upon the words Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House stenciled in chipping paint.  
  
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" she hissed incredulously. "What in the hell chances--"  
  
Yet Darby bit her tongue, she knew better than to press fate. She slowly arose from the ground, her gaze never leaving the wording. "If there is a God, then he sure must have looked past all those times I fell asleep during mass."  
  
She hurriedly made her way across the walk and to the stairs, and was poised to place a foot on the first rotting wooden step, yet halted.  
  
Darby's maiden experience hadn't been to magically enthralling the first time at the lodging house and what kept it from shattering to pieces this time? She was about to turn around and trek through the ungodly regions of Brooklyn back to the glorious comforts of her goose down bed once more when she felt a strong hand find its way to her shoulder and a hot belch erupt in her ear.  
  
Darby released an openly disgusted noise and shook out of the grasp. A clearly blasted newsie stood swaying on the steps, a glitter-shot glass of whiskey in his hand. "Hey, laday," he muttered, his eyes swiveling in their sockets.  
  
She only groaned as within a moment he had fallen with a heavy thud onto the steps. Picking up her skirt, Darby tiptoed over him, back kicking the bottle out of his grasp so it rolled down the steps and landed in the snow.  
  
Darby now stood in front of the splintering wooden door. With a great inhalation, she daintily knocked on it. When she was returned no response, she cautiously opened the door, peering her head in.  
  
A singular lantern was emitting a soft light as it stood poised on a warped wooden table in the parlor, a group of five boys planted about it, all emerged in a game of poker. She loudly cleared her throat and entered the threshold, slamming the door behind her, causing the lantern to rattle. All boys shot icy glares at her.  
  
Darby suddenly felt all her teachings being vacuumed out of her as she stood in the doorway looking like an utter idiot. "Pots Smonlon?" she finally stammered in an incomprehensible tone.  
  
That caused the group to break up into silent laughter as one boy suddenly croaked, "Upstahs. In da bunkr'm. Playin' pokah."  
  
Darby only stiffly nodded in his direction before she disappeared up the stairs, her face smoldering hot, their subtle laughter still ringing in her ears. "Still as awful as ever," she said in a low, spiteful voice, finding herself in a darkened hallway.  
  
Yet, down at the very tail of the hallway glowed a dim white light. Using her better judgement, Darby slowly strode towards the light, the floorboards creaking under her weight as though they were being murdered.  
  
The light was pouring out of an open door. As she gingerly looked in, she took the room to indeed be the bunkroom. Bowed, splintered bunks were crammed from wall to wall, with a slight opening in the middle where a slew of boys were sitting in a makeshift circle through a cloud of smoke and the glittering of alcohol bottles.  
  
Catching her breath in her trachea, Darby tightly shut her eyes and softly knocked thrice on the cracked doorframe. Her eyes fluttered open a moment later to find all gazes on her, not all offering the gift of friendship.  
  
"Ah, Spot Conlon?" she inquired shakily, as she regarded him.  
  
Spot Conlon was propped against the leg of a bunk, in all but gray slacks with the suspenders at a heap on the floor and a pair of scuffed shoes. His dirty blonde hair was awry and a smoking cigar dangled from the corner of one lip, a glass bottle of gin companion next to him. His gaze flickered from Darby to the other newsboys and he slowly nodded, laying his cards down in front of him and arising.  
  
"So, what, Spot, ya not playin' or what?" a boy asked in a deep voice.  
  
Spot only nodded his head silently as he reached to the top of one of the bunks, revealing his threadbare jacket and applying it with a flourish. He hadn't even made his way to the doorframe before his lot of cards had been divvied among the others.  
  
Without a word, he had passed Darby without so much as a glance and was making his way down the darkened hallway. Her wild gaze flitted from the poker players to Spot, who had already vanished.  
  
With a start, Darby sprinted down the hallway and down the stairs, catching Spot at the door as he bid his farewells to the newsboys in the parlor with a simple salute. She followed him out the doors, the raw coldness hitting her marrow due to the rapid decrement in temperature and the fresh veils of new falling snow.  
  
Darby joined Spot at the bottom of the stairs, her arms wrapped about her, and she watched as he inhaled on the cigar once more and pitched it to the snow.  
  
A flood of smoke streamed from his nostrils and he finally turned to her, looked at her, those green eyes burning into her soul. "So what d'ya want, Dahby?" he asked lazily.  
  
Darby remained breathless, pinned to the spot by those ravaging eyes. "To- to see you," she finally stammered.  
  
Spot exhaled, his breath coming out in apparent crystals, and he averted is gaze to the sky. "Why, Dahby?"  
  
And suddenly Darby Rockwell felt as thought she were six again and Spot was her horrid governess, and he was talking to her in that condescending manner that the governess had always parleyed in, always causing Darby to feel like the utmost idiot. And suddenly she was an idiot with tears welling in the corners of her eyes. "Why? Why?" she asked in a strained voice, desperate not to let him view her break down. "Because-because I wanted to know if that night wasn't just a fluke."  
  
He brought his eyes down to her, the moonlight glimmering off his hair. "A fluke? A fluke? What the hell kinda idea made ya t'ink dat it wasn't a fluke?"  
  
Darby cocked her head, not being able to comprehend how one could be so cold. Inside her chest cavity, it felt as though her heart was being mutilated, and it got all the worse just by looking into those hard eyes of glass. "I-I don't know," she replied in a cracked, tear-stained voice "I-I just never felt that way before. Ever--"  
  
Spot took a step closer to her, so their noses were barely touching, those eyes wrecking her soul. "Listen, Dahby," he started in a low growl, clutching a handful of her cloak at the neck, yet he halted, his gaze flickering over her shoulder. He elicited a low groan and Darby clumsily looked over her shoulder to see a the band of newsboys that had been playing poker in the parlor were now with their noses and palms pressed against one of the dust-laced window, taking in every word and action that had been relayed between the two.  
  
"Come wit me," Spot hissed, striding forward with a vengeance, causing Darby to yelp as he forcefully tugged on her cloak, dragging her forward, her toes causing the snow to spray about.  
  
She released a choke as she was slammed into the splintered side of the lodging house. Her hood fell back to reveal her wild hair and wild eyes. Spot's jaw was set and his eyes glimmering. "Why are ya really here, Dahby Rockwell?"  
  
It was then Darby felt the absolute passion manifest itself in her soul, and with a sharp jerk she had ripped herself away from Spot, and was stumbling backwards, nearly tumbling off the snow covered pier and into the frigid river. "I'm here because I felt something that night that I never, ever felt before!" she screamed feverishly.  
  
Spot shook his head with an air of disgust. He strode towards her, hands dropped at his sides. "Dahby, how the hell many oddah goils d'ya t;ink have said dat to me?"  
  
Darby was poised to retaliate, yet halted, her head cocked and mouth opened. Words that Katrina had uttered filtered through her head. "'The girls-did I mention the girls--'" She snapped her gaze to his. "'Well, every lady in New York either fears Mr. Conlon or else is desperately in love with him. Whitie went on for about ten minutes listing all the names of girls that Spot has been with.'"  
  
She shook her head in disbelief, not wishing to believe that this was a mere ruse, yet Spot approached her, nodding. "Yeah, Dahby, its all true. It was all a bet between me and me pals. See if we could nab two richies-and whaddya know?"  
  
Darby stepped back, the protesting mounds of snow hindering her, her head furiously shaking, her hair falling out of the ribbon. "No! It's not true! That night I thought that you would indeed drag me up there like you do all those other girls. And you said you would never do that--"  
  
Spot was growling in protest, yet Darby continued. "You said you would never do that, and I believed you and I believed you still. If you had half as much a wonderful time as I than I believe you! But you're just too proud. Too goddamn proud. You saw me with David Van Wyck and I told you, I told you that I was destined to marry him, and you asked me to dinner anyhow! But your pride was hurt!" He was furiously shaking his head yet Darby could read the truth in his eyes. "Yes!" she cried intensely, stepping backwards. "It's the truth! The absolute truth! I told you that I despised David Van Wyck with the utmost passion and that it meant nothing that day but what the hell could you say to your friends? That you, the fearless leader of Brooklyn, had been had been sent to the cesspool but a girl? A girl? But it's you who is to break the hearts, not the other way around. And when it happened to you it-Jesus Christ, it didn't happen! That's what I'm here for! That night must have been the single most spectacular moment of my life and if you are going to brush it off like it never happened, well then you're more an idiot than my mother!"  
  
Spot only fell silent, his green eyes not being able to be detected, covering the distance between them. "Howd'ya know I was da "fearless leadah" of Brooklyn?"  
  
Darby suddenly became flustered by the offset in the sudden calm in his tone. "I-I-I-Katrina."  
  
"And who told Katrina?"  
  
"Whitie."  
  
Darby was now tottering on the edge of the dock, Spot no more than a mere inch away from her. Her eyes grew wide and breathing became labored.  
  
"I knew ya were wit Van Wyck long befoah I knew you," he said softly, his fingers lightly dancing across the base of Darby's wrists, causing a shudder to dance down her spine.  
  
Her eyes lit up in surprise. "You-you did?"  
  
The snow was beginning to fall harder, and they had collected a dusting of white. He nodded. "Yeah, in da papes, dey have dat one section dat shows the high 'n mighty at all of dere fancy balls. You were always with him, and always looked so damn unhappy."  
  
A grim smile formed on Darby's lips as she gazed to the ground. "You would look unhappy too if a vile creature such as that had literally been trying to rape you at the dinner table in front of all of New York's finest."  
  
This brought on no reaction whatsoever from Spot, save he taking Darby's chin between his thumb and index finger and raising it. "Ya really have ta marry him?"  
  
Darby released a haunting sigh and cast down her eyes. "Yes. I have to. Our parents want the money and he wants me. But it won't be every night, I suspect. He'll have his fair share of mistresses--" Involuntarily, bitter tears found their way down her cheeks.  
  
"Christ," Spot barely whispered. "And I t'ought ya had such a chahmed life. Ya fancy cloths, good speakin', fancy house--"  
  
They both fell silent, only the sound of ragged breathing audible in the ethereal clear night.  
  
"Darby?" he finally asked, rupturing the silence.  
  
"Um?"  
  
"When ya said dat day dat ya would rathah be married to a flea-infested newsie like me than be married to someone as bad as Van Wyck--"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Didja mean it?"  
  
Darby felt the utter air being stolen from her as she looked up and into the infinite depths of those green eyes. "Of course--"  
  
And then their lips were pressed together, and a fire pulsated through them fracturing the coldness of the night, the taste of Darby's bittersweet tears that were streaming down her cheeks along with the taste of dated nicotine, combining in a gloriously hot sensation, burning away all thoughts of the world. 


	12. Chapter Twelve

Note from Author: Woo hoo! Only a few more chapters to go. But remember: reviews = new chapter. Enjoy! PS: I would rate this chapter a PG-16 for some use of coarse language that isn't used as often in other chapters.  
  
CHAPTER TWELVE  
  
Darby Rockwell finally understood what it was like to be one of the condemned to the gallows on the day of their execution. The spectators of course were insanely joyous; they loved bloodshed. They were oblivious to the pain of the condemned, only that they were present to view the atrocious climax of the death sentence.  
  
Darby felt like one of the damned, her head hung, while she latched onto one of the scarlet crushed velvet curtains adorning the bay window. It seemed as though each sharp tug of the corset strings brought the tears closer to break point.  
  
The last moments were ticking away on the clock of freedom. The sky had darkened to a deep charcoal; meaning that in no time it would be pitch black and it would be time for the ball to start. All the elite guests would arrive, they would merrily dance, and then the marvelous feast would be broken out and right after that was when David Van Wyck would slide out of his chair and onto his knee, bestowing her with the gleaming ring. It had happen before, yet now there would be no apple pie to break her fall.  
  
Yet, Darby knew that tonight would not be as impossibly difficult if she had not met Spot Conlon. True, he was only a lowly newsboy, but the real world, the world of accents and spitting handshakes, was embodied in him. She had only known him for less than a week, yet the pain in her shattering heart was unbearable whenever she thought that she would perhaps never again see him.  
  
The wedding, of course, would be in the very near future. Darby didn't doubt it for a moment that with the exquisite dress sent from Paris she was due to wear tonight, another had been sent along with it: a pompous, immaculately white wedding dress. She would be pushed down the aisle in reluctance and tears and then David Van Wyck would own her. And there was absolutely nothing she could do.  
  
The corset was finally tied. Darby let go of the now crumpled drape and inhaled. A tear slipped from her cheek at the compression of the garment.  
  
It was then that a high, nasal voice pierced the air. "Oh, Darby! Do hurry up! The guests will be arriving soon."  
  
Darby did not even raise her head to regard her mother; she only stood pale, her eyes falling to the plush white carpet.  
  
Ava was soon on her, pushing her and prodding her, finally shoving the dress at her.  
  
"Darby! Do hurry up, will you? You better not keep David waiting!"  
  
Darby had to use all force possible not to annihilate her mother once and for all. She only raised her head, the iridescent pale peach dress askew in her arms, to see her mother exit the room in a flourish, in only corset and slip, her brown hair piled upon her head accented with horrible ornaments ranging from flowers to faux birds.  
  
She still remained in her own somber state, and it was in no time before the maids had dressed her, all uttering oohs and ahs.  
  
Darby let her eyes wander to the grand mahogany full-length mirror, only feeling revulsion and an infinite sadness at the reflection that stared her back. She looked like a vision, of course, the dress was impeccably suited for her, accenting every curve of her body. The pale color emphasized the rouge that they had stained her cheeks with, trying to achieve a glow on her otherwise pallor skin. The strand of pale pink diamonds around her neck glittered vaingloriously in the light, matching the ones that had been weaved in to her intricate hair style. She of course looked the part of an elegant socialite, alas, her dark blue eyes retained no shimmer, showing to those that viewed closely enough that she had left her heart and soul back at the dock behind the Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House.  
  
"OH! My DARLING! You look so BEAUTIFUL!"  
  
Ava Rockwell had returned, this time fully dressed in an ostentatious deep blue gown smattered with glitter.  
  
Darby only raised a brow slightly, her rouged lips in a perfect line, as she watched her mother in the mirror come behind her and rest her vein laced hands on her shoulders.  
  
"You look absolutely beautiful, darling! Why, why don't you looked overjoyed?"  
  
Darby had to suppress herself from breaking out into maniacal laughter. Her mother, nor anyone else, had the slightest idea that she knew that she was going to be forced to become that vile man's fiancée tonight.  
  
Her forlorn expression never transformed.  
  
"Well," Ava said, stepping back, somewhat flustered at her daughter's behavior. Though, suddenly, a smile lit up her red-lacquered lips. "Oh, Darby, you'll never guess who arrived?"  
  
Darby bit down on her tongue from asking whom.  
  
"David!" Ava cried, her eyes lighting up. "Well, dear, David arrived. Well, you don't have to look too ecstatic! Well, anyway, David called up and wanted to know that if you were ready if he could have a word with you."  
  
At the mention of that infernal name, Darby's face ignited to twelve shades of hellfire red, Ava not seeming to take heed, continuing, "Well, all I have to do is say that you are complete since you obviously are. You know, Darby, it was never this good with your father and I. Your father was such a skirt-chaser when I met him! I never thought he'd settle down into the wonderful man he is today-but David Van Wyck, now there's a catch. You should be thanking your lucky stars each night that you have a man like that in your life. He is such a gentleman!"  
  
Darby was now as crimson as the Devil's hide with infuriation. It was grand that her mother halted there, claiming she was going to get David and exiting, for Darby had in her grasp one of her fantastically expensive pale salmon hued stilettos, poised toss it at her mother, not caring whether it hit her head and shattered her skull or not. She released a marvelous scream and heaved it instead against the mirror, causing it to shatter, the glimmering shards falling to the carpet in a fluster of metallic twangs.  
  
Hearing the hushed voices and footsteps echoing up the stirs, Darby burst into bitter, frustrated tears, falling onto her bed, sinking into the voluptuous bedding. She wished for nothing more between heaven and hell at this moment than to once more feel that wonderful, intoxicating feverish temptation that she could only experience in embraces with Spot. She wished it to banish the searing cold that had overpowered her heart.  
  
"Thank you so much, Mrs. Rockwell, you're wonderful." David Van Wyck's sickeningly charming voice seeped through the door like a revolting slime.  
  
Darby halted her tears, raising her head, her eyes narrowing into slits of burning hatred.  
  
"Thank you, Mrs. Rockwell. Did I tell you that you look like a goddess tonight? Oh, think nothing of it! Oh, don't flatter yourself, please! And I will see you at dinner!" David was halfway in the bedroom doorway. "Until tonight, Mrs. Rockwell." He then turned towards Darby, his features seeping impossible arrogance, as he slowly shut the door behind him.  
  
"Why, hello, Darby girl," he said, his appearance in a dark raven suit impeccable. "Don't you look like a goddess tonight?"  
  
"Fuck you," she snapped, uttering each syllable distinctly.  
  
David raised an eyebrow and clucked his tongue, placing his hands in his pockets and ambling across the room slowly. "Darby girl, come now. Such harsh words from such a beautiful girl. Surely, you did not learn such words from your mother? Now, she was quite flattered when I called her immortal."  
  
Darby regarded him with burning eyes from the bed. "That's because my mother is an idiot with out any brains whatsoever. You can't work your awful magic on me."  
  
He released a false laugh, halting in front of the mirror. "No, Darby girl, your quite right. Perhaps I don't work it on you, but that doesn't matter, now does it? You must know of the little arrangement that is going to occur tonight, do you not?"  
  
"How could I not?" she spit venomously. "Tonight's my execution."  
  
David released the same laugh, his eyes bright with pride. "Oh, your execution. I'm so sorry to hear that, but I daresay that you were misinformed for you see, tonight we will become engaged." His gaze fell to the mirror shards and he nudged them with his light reflecting black shoes. "Broken another shoe, Darby girl? Well, you might want to stop that dreadful habit now. You see, I'm a practical man and I shan't spoil you with replacements."  
  
With a quick thrust, Darby had pushed herself off the bed and over to David Van Wyck, her face burning with rancor. "Why me? Why the hell did you have to pick me? Why can you not marry some other girl! Plenty of whores named Airabella throw themselves at your feet, practically begging for you to take them. WHY ME?"  
  
He raised an eyebrow, his features lazy. "I pick you? I'm sorry if you had your hopes riding on that notion, yet it is untrue. Our parents picked each other. And besides, I really don't fathom that I would have chosen you as a bride, anyhow. You are too stubborn and passionate. Of course, you will have to do." A malicious smile slithered up his lips as he eased Darby against the wall. "You hate me so and I enjoy it so. You make me enjoy it even more as I see the hate shimmer in your eyes even as I speak." His hand fell to Darby's upper thigh, his voice lowering. "You see, I wish to teach you a lesson. If I must have you as a wife, you must be behaved. And at this rate, you are going to be the same obnoxious bitch as you are now. No, Darby girl, just wait until our wedding night. You will be mine and you cannot do a single thing. And I will make you wish that you would have appreciated me. I will make you and you will cry and you will learn." He leaned closer, his hot breath playing in her ear canal. "You will be mine and I will fuck you breathless, and when I grow tired of you I can always seek out the whores named Airabella."  
  
Darby could only stare into his proud eyes, fear cascading through her, her lips slightly parted. "You bottomless bastard."  
  
David elicited in that beguilingly charming laugh again, stepping back. "I, the bottomless bastard, Darby girl? Well, my mind may wander but at least I am not a cheating little slut."  
  
She narrowed her eyes. "What in the hell do you mean?" she spat.  
  
He cocked a brow, an exaggerated frown forming on his lips. "Oh, come now, Darby, you know exactly what I'm talking about. What would your poor parents think if they found you were running about town with a newsboy!"  
  
She released a terrible gasp, covering her hand with her mouth. "How-how did you know?" her voice was shrill.  
  
David's features were listless, yet his dark eyes glimmered. "Oh, I'm not that much of an idiot, Darby girl," he kicked a shard of glass with the toe of his shoe. "That night I thought at first that your voice was Ava's, but then I realized you tricked me when I saw your mother nowhere. So I ran back up to the room only to find the door locked. But since you were deathly ill with the Spanish Influenza I knew you were fibbing through your teeth so I looked through the keyhole and saw you and that Irish bitch talking. And as you disappeared out the French doors I ran down to the parlor and peered out the drapes. And what did I see?" He placed a hand to his forehead, his voice mockingly breaking. "You and some newsboy scampering across the lawns and out the gates."  
  
He clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and approached Darby, who had frozen as though water had been induced into her veins, suddenly hardening to a clear glass. His lips were twisted into a wicked smile and his glassy eyes gleamed as he lowered his mouth to her ear, whispering every so slightly, "Tell me, Darby, has he fucked you yet?"  
  
It was then as though a red-hot boiling liquid was surging its way throughout Darby's system, melting the ice, for she regained movement and quickly spat in his face with abhorrence.  
  
David stepped back, his eyes clenched shut and his features twisted as he blindly felt for the handkerchief that was folded neatly in his breast pocket. He pulled it out with a flourish, wiping the saliva from his face; his countenance still filled with insolent arrogance.  
  
He was poised to answer when there was a short wrap on the door and both directed their attention to it as it creaked open and a maid popped her head in. "Mister, Miss, it is almost time for dinner. They would like for you to escort the Miss."  
  
David cleared his throat and nodded in the direction of the maid, who promptly disappeared. "I must tell you though," he said in a low voice. "You shan't see this newsboy once I own you. It would upset your mommy so." He neatly refolded his handkerchief and placed it in its rightful spot, his gaze falling to Darby, as he lent out his bent arm. "Dear bride?"  
  
Darby regarded him with eyes narrowed in malevolence. "You may own my body, but you'll never, ever own my heart."  
  
And without another word, she linked his arm and they exited the room.  
  
***  
  
It was the beautiful climatic finale of Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake that washed over the ballroom, filling Darby's heart, causing her breathing to become labored, causing her pulse to race.  
  
She closed her eyes, allowing herself to forget that she was on the gleaming dance floor, her hand clasped in David Van Wyck's, the latter towering over her, an impossibly smug smile on his lips.  
  
The empowering music swept through her as the orchestra played their utter souls out. She had attended the ballet numerous times and knew every scene by heart. In the music now was when the two lovers were jumping off the cliff and into the seas below to break the spell of the evil wizard.  
  
A sudden, horrible thought entered her mind. She and Spot Conlon, racing feverishly hand in hand in time with the music, thundering down the Brooklyn Bridge-jumping off the massive structure and into the waters below so that the powers of the evil David Van Wyck were shattered once and for all and so they could be united forever.  
  
  
  
Her eyes fluttered open and she once again found herself in the stifling ballroom, David's head bowed close to hers, the corners of his lips turned up. She uttered a choke and stared past him to see Airabella Arnside swishing in time with some lanky blonde boy, her eyes alight with absolute hatred.  
  
  
  
Darby averted her gaze to David's ebony garment-covered shoulder. She doesn't need to glare at me so, she thought bitterly. If only she knew how readily, I'd like to hand the stupid bastard over to her.  
  
She allowed her mind to wander to the music once again, yet it was only a few brief moments later it ended. Her eyes still fixated to the glittering ground, she felt David carefully pull his hand away from hers, not seeing him motion to the orchestra so halt.  
  
He loudly cleared his throat. "Ladies and gentlemen! Ladies and gentlemen! If I could have your attention please?"  
  
All individual conversations died away as every body in the room contorted so their gaze could fall on him. Darby suddenly lifted her eyes, taking heed of her mother and Christina Van Wyck in the corner, blowing their noses and John Rockwell and Robert Van Wyck near the grand table, knowing smirks lighting their faces and quietly shaking hands.  
  
She could feel the absolute fear begin to creep up her backbone, yet she forced herself to keep still. She must keep to the schema.  
  
David had his hands raised, bent at the elbows. He wore a gleaming smile, his perfect teeth glaring in the soft light. "I'm sorry everyone to deny you the wonderful music, but if you will please bear with me for just a moment, I just feel as though something has to be done right now that should have happened long ago."  
  
An escaped sob from Ava sliced through the room.  
  
His smile only grew as he panned the guests, his eyes finally falling to Darby. "Darby girl," he said in that disgustingly charming voice. "I'm sorry that this couldn't have been completed before, but we had our set backs." He cleared his throat, falling to one knee, clasping one of Darby's hands into his. "Darby girl, you know how much I love you."  
  
Both mothers' cries pierced the air before they smothered them in handkerchiefs. Darby felt her face heat up fantastically, wishing desperately to pull her hand away and spit in his face. Yet, she willed herself to stay collected.  
  
David continued, his proud eyes burning into his. "I know we've had our differences." He patted her hand. "But I never stopped loving you. I've always loved you. You are the most beautiful creature on the face of this earth to me, Darby Rockwell. And I don't know how I would ever, ever live my life if you weren't part of it. I feel as though in the beginning of time all humans were divided in two and all out life we look for our soul mates, and it is rarely, if ever, we find them." His smile grew, Darby swearing she could see her reflection in his blinding teeth. "But I know you are my soul mate and you would make me the happiest man on earth if--" In one quick motion he had reached into his coat pocket and retried a velvet covered box, and opened it with a flick of the wrist, revealing a huge glittering rock sitting atop a golden band. "-if you would marry me, Darby Lynn Rockwell?"  
  
Under the awful circumstances, Darby had to force her lips from curling into a smile. Well, here goes nothing, she thought.  
  
Stepping back in great exuberance, throwing her hand to her heart and releasing a grand sigh, she cried, "Oh! Oh my goodness! I don't know what to say! I truly do not know what to say! I-I'm just incredibly stunned!"  
  
Darby watched in malicious mirth as David's smile faltered and the arrogance in his eyes was replaced by genuine surprise.  
  
"Oh my!" she exclaimed, forcing tears to well in her eyes as she raised a hand to her face to fan them away. "I-I don't know what to say!" Her gaze flickered to Ava, who sat with a handkerchief to her nose and gripping Mrs. Van Wyck. "Mummy, I don't know if I can answer--" She allowed the fictitious tears to fall with a vengeance. "Would you mind if I cleaned up first? This is no way to accept a proposal?"  
  
Ava Rockwell was so completely stunned that she sat motionless for a moment, before she released Mrs. Van Wyck and dabbed her eyes. "Yes, yes of course! Oh, what a wonderful day this is!"  
  
Darby forced more tears as she stepped away from David, who gazed up at her with bulging eyes, the diamond sparkling in the light. She brushed under her eyes to rid the tears as she backed away, her eyes locked on his. "Oh, my darling David. This is just no way to accept a proposal. I will be back shortly."  
  
And with a flourish, Darby spun around and exited the hall, still erupting in great, charlatan sobs of happiness. She continued with this fabrication until she had safely passed by the last of the butlers, before they abruptly stopped and her features hardened in determination.  
  
"Stupid idiots," she murmured under her breath, picking up her pace, winding through the hallways and finally to the parlor where she marched over to the doors. With out so much as second thought, she flung open one of the sizeable doors, the twilight's coldness suddenly overtaking the room. Yet, she felt none of this for her pulse was racing tenfold and it filled her with a feverish high.  
  
Quietly shutting the door behind her, Darby quickly slid off her stilettos with the opposite heel, allowing her soles to become accustomed to the searing ground before she took off like a bullet being fired from a gun. She leapt the stairs in one bound and was down the walk and out the gates in a whisper. Absolute freedom and longing and liberty and determination surging powerfully through her, she pumped her legs as forcefully as humanly possibly, her head high, breathing sporadic, and ornate hair rapidly coming undone, flying behind her like a cape in the wind.  
  
The breathtaking music of Tchaikovsky's finale reverberating through her head, she ran as though she was in a blind, dark dream. She took no footnotes whatsoever of the surroundings she was in one second and out the next. Took no heed of the eyes that quickly burned into her. She only allowed her bare feet to pound against the cracked cement, hot and cold mixing inside her, causing a sensational high, as she followed her instincts to the only place on earth she desired to be.  
  
She suddenly halted, her feet unbearably hot and stinging against the pavement, the free strands of her hair whipping in the slight gusts of winds, her breathing heavy and head cocked, as she read the words that were illuminated in the soft light: Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House.  
  
Inhaling in a deep breath, she was up the stairs and slamming open the door in a breath, paying no heed whatsoever to the protests of the band of boys that sat around the same makeshift table. Her breathing was heavy and labored as she willed herself up the stairs, placing her hands on her thighs and pushing off. She rounded the corner, banging into a wall, and flew down the hallway to the golden light at the end, the floorboards moaning under her weight.  
  
Darby only collapsed when she was in the doorway, falling against the frame, her body weak. A group of boys were littered on the bunks and on the floor, all gazes shifting to her. Yet, she only regarded one, her eyes soft and on fire.  
  
Spot Conlon was straddling a decrepit chair about-face, the hilt of a cane firmly in his grasp as the other polished the head. Alas, the cane quickly fell to the floor in a clamber as his jaw dropped and eyes grew wide in disbelief. "Dahby?"  
  
She mustered a nod, a tired smile playing on her lips.  
  
He blinked, his wide eyes, a stunned smile playing on his lips, as he rose suddenly, knocking the chair to the floor. He was standing in front of her, his emerald eyes glittering, his hands on her shoulders. "What-what in da hell are ya doin' here?"  
  
Darby's simper widened, as she breathlessly tried to form the words.  
  
He shook her shoulders harshly, his eyes wide. "But Van Wyck-da parhy? What about you gettin' married?"  
  
Darby opened her mouth, poised to answer, when she glanced over Spot's shoulder to see all the newsboys gaping at her. She motioned with her head as he briefly looked over his shoulder. In a quick motion, he had pushed Darby out of the bunkroom and into an adjacent room across the hall. As he shut the door behind them, they were engulfed in utter darkness.  
  
"Spot?" Darby softly whispered, taking an insignificant step forward.  
  
The sound of a match was heard being stuck, and suddenly a small bright flame erupted, casting a glow on Spot's visage. He cupped a hand around it and lowered the flame to a lantern, which was soon ablaze. He released a smile and blew the match out.  
  
Darby let her eyes adjust to the room, though even with the blaze was still shrouded in shadows. "This is your room, I take it?" she inquired, taking in the atmosphere.  
  
Spot nodded, rubbing his hands together, panning the room, "Yeah, it's not much, but, hell, its home." His eyes suddenly fell to her as his features took on a serious tone. "Why ya here?"  
  
Darby allowed her gaze to snap from the warped bed to his glimmering eyes. "I couldn't do it," she simply replied.  
  
"Couldn't do what?" he asked, stepping closer to her.  
  
"I was there waltzing about with him, when the revelation struck that I didn't have to marry him. I couldn't marry him. I could imagine myself his dutiful little wife, and I realized that I would commit suicide if that were to actually occur. And I realized that there was no place more in the world that I wanted to be than right here."  
  
Spot cocked a brow and reached out for her gloved hand, taking it in his clammy grasp. "Dahby, do you know how goddamn insane ya are?"  
  
She allowed her cupid-bow lips to fall open, absolute confusion sweeping over her. "Insane?" she murmured.  
  
He nodded, regarding her as though she were a frail child. "Christ, Dahby, ya really screwed t'ings up this time--"  
  
Darby pulled away from his grasp, her voice rising in indignation. "How could I screw things up? I declare, but isn't this what you wanted--"  
  
Spot elicited a short laugh, the light and shadows playing on the smooth crevices of his face. "What I wanted? Dahby, how da hell could I not want ya? Jesus Christ!" He involuntarily picked up his arm, lowering it behind his head and running a hand through the back of his dirty blonde hair. "But it's not what I want! It's not what you want-I-ya really expect dat ya can jist go runnin' off from ya hoity-toidy lifestyle and then what? Live in a goddamn lodgin' house?"  
  
Darby felt bitter tears find their way to her eyes. "No, of course--"  
  
His eyes gleamed with a fire and he stepped closer towards her. "Ya so naïve, Dahby, ya know nuttin bout da real woild and den ya jist expect ya can t'row it all away like dat and make it in da real woild? And what? Cry on me shouldah, little, goil?"  
  
She was not at all selective of the hot sharp tears that streamed down her face. "You, you, bastard. You fathom that I would, I would MISS that world if I were to leave it? You must be more idiotic than I could have ever imagined. I have never, ever belonged to that world and you know of none of my sufferings and, and you want me to go back?" He made an attempt to grasp her hand, yet she only pulled away. "No, no. Don't touch me!" His silhouette was blurry through her tear-infected vision. "I am not some stupid little rich girl! I am so much more than that and if you cannot see that, then--"  
  
Darby did not care at all to disguise the bitter tears. Spot released a minute sigh and took her hand in his, pulling her into his embrace. She broke down even more at him questioning her decision, her nose buried into the comfortable material of his moth-eaten shirt, his soft breathing with the faintest traces of dated nicotine and alcohol apparent.  
  
"Dahby," he whispered, his hot breath dancing in her ear. "I'm only makin' shoah dat ya--"  
  
Yet, Darby interrupted his soft statement, her eyes alive with a blue fire. "If I was not certain with my entire heart and soul then I would be back with David Van Wyck's glittering ring on my finger, not here."  
  
She was unable to fathom what he was pondering as he read her face with his eyes. "All right," he said simply, before lowering his head, pressing his lips against hers.  
  
Darby released a small gasp, falling gloriously into him. She tilted her head, trying to accommodate the impossible passion that swirled through her head and through out every vein in her body. He pressed back more vehemently and with a vengeance. As the same fiery exhilaration coursed through her once more, all notions of whether if being at the Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House was correct or not were dashed from Darby Rockwell's mind at that moment.  
  
Even though blind to the world, violent sparks of scarlet hues flashed in Darby's mind as her arms found their way around his neck and her hands into his wonderful hair, her fingers intertwining in it. He suddenly broke away, his breathing heavy, and his perspiration slicked forehead against hers. His green eyes blazed with a question that could not possibly be expressed by words. Darby only closed her eyes and pressed her mouth against his, parting her lips and savoring the taste of gin and cigarettes, answering.  
  
His lips parted from hers, as Darby found his neck. He worked skillfully, stands of his hair falling in his eyes, carefully loosening the exquisite peach garment. Their eyes connected for a moment before Darby raised her arms above her head and in a whisper the wonderful dress was on the floor. His fingers were quickly unknotting the corset as she was clumsily snapping open his buttons of his dark blue shirt. She slid his suspenders off and rested her burning cheek against his cold, clammy chest.  
  
As the layers were pulled off in an excruciatingly slow manner, Darby suddenly felt like a silly, immature girl against a master of the art who has dedicated himself to it for his entire life span. Yet, he only had to gaze at her with those eyes and all fears were banished and replaced by sultry passion as his lips met hers once again and he silently blew out the lantern, engulfing the room in darkness, as they fell to the bed, a feverish temptation suffocating her.  
  
***  
  
It was rude hollers that woke Darby Rockwell the next morning and her mind issued only one cause. She started, her eyes closed, and released a groan.  
  
"That damn newsboy," the growled rather groggy, her eyes still shut from sleep. "I told him not to sell his horrid newspapers in front of my house-- "  
  
It was only when someone violently shouted "DARBY" that consciousness fully returned to her and reality hit quite brutally.  
  
Last night. Ball. Swan Lake. David. Proposal. Brooklyn. Spot-oh CHRIST!  
  
Her eyes fluttered open and what she espied caused her to elicit an awful scream. The clear morning sky filled the room, and the awful scene unfolding. Spot Conlon was to his feet, his hair and expression awry, dressed in only trousers. Police officers flanked him, grasping either arm tightly.  
  
Darby soon realized that she herself was without clothing and she tightly brought the moth-eaten blanket tightly around her, assuming a sitting position on the lumpy mattress. Her eyes were wide with disbelieve as Spot finally caught her gaze. He opened his mouth, poised to speak, when a cry halted him.  
  
"Darby!"  
  
Darby abruptly snapped her head to the doorway and what she viewed caused cold waves of fear to tango down her spine.  
  
David Van Wyck stood in the doorframe, still wearing the same opulent suit from the previous night, fierce worry adorning his features.  
  
"OH DARBY!" he cried, spreading his arms at full length and rushing over to her side, gathering her in his arms.  
  
She was too utterly stunned to ward him off. She only repetitiously shook her head, the blanket pressed tight to her, David's arms snaked about her, pulling her tight, the unwelcome smell of musky cologne invading her nostrils.  
  
"Oh, Darby, you must be traumatized!" he cried, that note of deceptiveness laced into his worry. She shifted her haze to him, still lightheaded. "What-what do you mean traumatized?"  
  
His eyes opened wide in a flourish of shock. "Oh, you poor child." He turned to regard the police officers. "See what he's done! That ruffian has beguiled her into concluding that nothing happened!"  
  
Quick fury coursed through Darby as she indignantly squirmed out of his grasp. "What are you babbling about? Why in the hell are you here?"  
  
David opened his mouth in exaggeration when one of the officers said in a gruff voice, "Alright, boys, lets git him out of here and where he belongs."  
  
Darby watched in marvelous horror as the officers linked their elbows with Spot's and began to drag him backwards, absolute bewilderment emerging on his face.  
  
"HEY! WAIT! WAIT!" he hollered, his voice high, his heels digging into the splintering floorboards.  
  
Yet, the officers were overwhelmingly powerful, and it was when they had him in the doorway that Darby released an ear-shattering scream and sprang off the mattress and over to one of the officers, grasping his elbow and desperately trying to remove him from Spot.  
  
"LET HIM GO!" she screeched, her blazing eyes interlocking with the officer. The latter only looked over her shoulder and to David. "Git the kid some help, will ya? We'll take care of him alright," he said motioning with his head to Spot.  
  
Darby watched incredulously as David only nodded and as the police officers had a kicking and hollering Spot out the door and into the hallway.  
  
"NO! NO!" she screamed, poised to pick up her feet and sprint after them, when she felt a strong hand on her bare shoulder, holding her back.  
  
She slowly turned around to see David staring at her with solemn eyes.  
  
She regarded him with heavy breathing and wide eyes for a moment before she screamed, "WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?"  
  
David only nodded and released his grip on her. He strode over to the only window in the room and stared out if for a moment before he turned to Darby. "My, my, my, Darby, he really has you, hasn't he?"  
  
"HAS ME WHAT?" she cried in desperation.  
  
David bowed his head, an expression adorning his face as though he was in mass. " You must remember? Last night? After I proposed, you claimed you were going to the restroom to freshen up, but you were so incredibly overwhelmed that you went outside to catch your breath. That's when you saw the newsboy, the newsboy who was dangerously obsessed with you outside the gates. You tried desperately to scream, yet he overpowered you."  
  
Instantly Darby felt the nausea manifest itself and the reason being vacuumed from her mind.  
  
He continued, regarding her as though he was bearing the news of the death of a loved one upon her. "Yes, Darby girl, and the bastard brought you back here-back to this room, where he-where he--"  
  
"Where he what?" she monotonously inquired, fearing to know the answer.  
  
David's large eyes grew solemn. "Where he raped you."  
  
For a moment, she could not comprehend what he had said. And then it hit her like a bullet to the abdomen. "YOU BASTARD! YOU BASTARD! I'LL KILL YOU!" she screamed, lunging at him, her claws unsheathed.  
  
Yet, David easily caught her and released a malevolent laugh, as he pinned her arms behind her back, turning her about. "Oh, no, Darby," he said in a low voice. "I'm sure I'm not the one that will get killed today. I'd be rather worried about the newsboy."  
  
His hot exhalations in her ear, he forced Darby across the room and over to the window, what she saw causing her to break down into bitter tears.  
  
Hoards of officers in their pressed blue suits swarmed about in front of the lodging house, some of them forcefully ushering Spot into one of wagons labeled with the ungodly words stenciling of House of Refuge; her mother, fainted on the steps of the lodging house, her father worriedly fanning her face. All the Brooklyn newsboy clumped into an irregular mass outside, some being inquired by yelling officers, all watching as their leader was lead hissing and kicking into the wagon.  
  
Darby shut her eyes turned her head away, letting the convulsions overwhelm her entire body.  
  
"I told you that you wouldn't see that newsboy once I owned you," David hissed arrogantly into her ear, only igniting more bitterness in the tears.  
  
"Oh, and by the way, dear bride, you forgot this last night." With a quick flick, he produced the glittering engagement ring and slipped it on Darby's finger, the cold metal feeling utterly atrocious against her skin. 


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Note from Author: All apologies for being so evil. But, it had to be done. I am almost done! Yay! And I promise, promise, promise things will lighten up in the next chapter. Please read and review and enjoy..  
  
CHAPTER THIRTEEN  
  
The structure was antediluvian, unbearably looming in stature, like some unforgiving sentinel against the backdrop of the early morning winter storm. Lightening streaked across the cold sky, illuminating the world in its eerie bath of light for a moment, just giving Darby Rockwell enough time to read the chipped wording of House of Refuge, before averting her eyes, a shutter creeping down her spine.  
  
She lowered her somber gaze to the slush covered walk, ignoring the cold eyes of the ever-present guards, as she made her way up the chipped stairs, proceeding as though she were partaking in a funeral procession. She passed through the monstrous arched doors, a stale, pungent odor invading her nostrils. The atmosphere was dark, dank, damp, blazes of fire encased in glass tossing haunting shadows all about.  
  
Darby walk down the straight away for a few moments before she came to a crossroads of corridors, a hulking figure suddenly stepping out in front of her, causing her to halt and utter a fearful gasp, placing a gloved hand to her heart.  
  
He stood, the shadows playing upon his rough features, his black hawk-like eyes piercing her mortal soul, causing an icy fear to slowly gnaw its way throughout her, internally.  
  
She gazed at him, her eyes stark with the purest of fear. She could do nothing but stare.  
  
The guard's eyes ravaged her, until he elicited a guttural growl, the scowl upon his mouth broadening. "You. This way."  
  
And without another word, he had turned and was striding down the haunting hall, Darby quickly jumping to the present moment again and following behind, her eyes darting wildly about the hall, unabashed at how any soul could be captured in this ungodly fortress.  
  
He led her down the corridor, the shadows and flickers of fire playing upon the panels of the highly polished, deep maroon wood, the grime glowing phosphorescently upon the spaces where walls were bare, revealing cold cement.  
  
The hall finally broke off and the guard veered sharply to the right, only to disappear through an unhappy doorway covered in chipping olive paint. Darby followed, her deep breathing coming out in drifts of frozen crystals, the absolute coldness that covered the entire grounds like a shroud saturating through to her marrow.  
  
She plunged her hands more deeply into her mink muffler, her teeth still chattering as she followed the guard through the warped doorway, entering now a small flight of cement steps, slippery with smatters of stagnant water.  
  
Their shoes clicked against the pavement in unison as the stairs leveled and they were now in a narrow corridor, flanked on either side by splintered wooden doors, the boards moaning under the guard's severe weight.  
  
Darby allowed her gaze to linger on each door, the faint drip of water in her ears, wondering if he was behind any of them, the accompanying mental pictures too utterly terrifying even to begin to comprehend.  
  
Suddenly, the guard halted, almost causing Darby to slam into his muscular back. Yet, she skidded to a standstill just in time, her stilettos' traction wavering under the slick hardwood.  
  
He turned partially over his shoulder, his brutal eyes alive in the shadows, and jerkily nodded his head in the direction of one extremely decrepit door. "In there," he barked in a low voice. "Make it quick."  
  
Darby only nodded, her breath bated and heart painfully pounding with a vengeance in her chest cavity.  
  
The guard released an inaudible murmur, lumbering past Darby and down the desolate hallway, the floorboards accepting his size as though they were being diabolically murdered.  
  
She paid no heed whatsoever as he disappeared, and as a heavy door slammed in the distance. Her ice blue eyes were only trained on that awful door. It took every single iota of her being to suppress herself from breaking down into utter hysterics in that hallway.  
  
She only closed her eyes tightly, trying desperately to bridle the untamed sobs that were begging to unsheathe themselves from her throat. She inhaled deeply, catching her breath, stiffly approaching the door. She allowed her eyes to flutter open to find that she was only mere inches away from the fragmented door adorned with many knot holes. She parted her lips to parley, yet found herself only choking back a sob.  
  
Darby immediately placed the back of a gloved hand to her mouth, spinning about and slamming her back quietly against the door. She knew there was no way in hell she could possibly speak. She would die of tearful convulsions if she did.  
  
Alas, she heard a faint groan from behind the rotted door, and her breath caught jaggedly in her throat, as she turned her head sharply over her shoulder, and then in one slow, smooth motion turned so she was facing the door once more. Pain and despair surging rampantly throughout her veins, Darby quickly shut her eyes and rested her forehead against the grimy sheet of wood.  
  
"Spot?" Her voice was low and quiet and cracked.  
  
Another faint moan was heard from behind the door and Darby clenched her eyes together, pressing her hands to her mouth to stifle the sobs.  
  
"Who-who's dere?" The voice was weak and fractured, yet Darby realized it at once, and as she did so the hot bitter tears freed themselves, pouring down her cheeks.  
  
She fell to her haunches, her forehead still against the door, allowing her hands to search for the small, rectangular metal flap in the door. Gathering a constricted breath, she pulled the flap towards her, allowing her eyes access to the dark cell, save for the faintest light that flickered in a lantern in a corner.  
  
"Who's dere?" the voice came again, this time breaking. There was the faint creak of floorboards before a face appeared on the other side of the flap.  
  
And what Darby saw caused her to elicit a horrible vociferation, allowing her to let the flap fall shut as she fell back on the gleaming, dark hued floor, drawing a passion from the cries.  
  
"Jesus Christ, izat you, Dahby?" his cracking voice came combining with the rusted sound the flap released as it was pushed open.  
  
Darby was stuck with the notion that she could not possibly open her eyes, could not possibly see that face through that horrid flap again, yet she willed herself to open them and regard the door through tear-stained vision. Wiping her eyes on the back of her gloved hands, Darby rose to her knees, unsteadily pulling herself to the door and rising to her knees.  
  
"Yes, it's me," her voice was unusually soft as she battled to hinder the tears.  
  
"DAHBY?" There was a clatter in the room behind the warped door of objects being struck to the ground. Spot Conlon's face suddenly appeared at the flap. "What da hell are ya--"  
  
Yet, Darby interrupted him with her howl. "WHAT THE HELL DID THEY DO TO YOUR FACE?"  
  
He raised a brow, backed away from the flap, allowing his hands to map his face before a grim smile crossed his lips, and his glimmering eyes connected with Darby's. "What? Dis? Hell, woise t'ings have happened ta me befoah. Hell, I'se da leadah of Brooklyn."  
  
Darby could not comprehend how he could find humor in such a condition. She allowed her eyes to rapidly scan his face, taking in his double black eyes, the right one swelled shut, the dried blood under his nose, and the congealed claret on his split lip. Her head fell against the flap. "What the hell happened to you?" she inquired in a soft, tear-laced voice.  
  
A smile touched his lips as his head fell forward, his skin clammy and his wisps of his slovenly hair against her pale flesh. "Da bulls don't take too much to ya if dey t'ink ya a street rat who kidnapped and raped a rich goil- -"  
  
"Oh, Jesus!" Darby breathlessly sobbed, falling away from the flap and to the door, collapsing against it. "Oh, Christ. I'm, I'm sorry. I'm such a goddamn idiot. It's all my fault. All my fault. If we never would have met then you wouldn't be in here--"  
  
"Hey, hey, hey!" Spot cried sharply, as Darby felt his fingers blindly poke at her bonnet.  
  
She shook her head, the convulsions over taking her, burying her face in her hands. "No! It was a mistake from the beginning. If we would have never met then you wouldn't be in here--"  
  
"God damn it, Dahby, will you look at me?" he hissed.  
  
Darby slowly raised her head, her fingers grasping onto the hole cut into the door as she pulled herself to her knees. His ice-cold hands immediately found hers, and she flinched at the sight of them.  
  
"Your-your hands!"  
  
He grimly nodded. "Well, da kindness at da House of Refuge transcends not only to ya face but to ya hole body as well."  
  
Darby uttered a choke, pressing her forehead against the grimy door and reaching her arm blindly through the flap, finding the back of his skull, her fingers intertwining in his filthy hair, pressing his head against the hole, and pressing her brow to his. "I'm sorry. It's all my fault." The tears broke her speech. "I've been thinking about nothing, absolutely nothing but you for the past two days. I wanted to be with you with such a passion. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. But I never thought he would do anything like this! I, I never thought he would be so-so damn evil. I'm sorry. It's all my fault. It would have been best if we never would have met--"  
  
Spot sibilated, reaching his hands out and interlacing them firmly about her shaking head. "Ya listen and ya listen good, Dahby Rockwell. I would radah been in her foah an entire lifetime dan nevah have met you."  
  
Darby raised her tear filled eyes to meet his, his good eye glittering stark against the black. She avidly shook her head. "No. No."  
  
Yet, he tightened his grip and stopped it. A slight smile touched the corners of his lips. "Yes."  
  
"No," she choked.  
  
"Yes," he said firmly, his eye glittering. "Jesus Christ, goil. Dis isn't ya run of da mill t'ing, here. I nevah said t'ings like dis to anyone else, even Adelle."  
  
Darby raised her eyes to his and had to crack a subtle smile. "Oh, how can you crack jokes at a time like this?"  
  
Spot's eyes grew serious. "If I didn't, den I'd go absolutely fuckin' crazy ovah not seein' ya."  
  
She pressed her brow firmly against his, and shut her eyes as tight as humanly possible, yet was not able to bridle the tears that cascaded down her cheeks. "What about the trial?"  
  
He released a bitter laugh, his breath icy-cold against her flesh, causing goosebumps to arise. "What is dere ta say? He's da mayah of New Yawk's son, coise dey gonna believe any damn woid he says. He stood up dere, in his 'spensive suits and solemn expressions and accused me while I sat dere. Said dat I was infatuated wit ya and dat he'd seen me hangin' around befoah. Said dat night he perposed to ya, and ya went out side but I knocked ya ovah da head unconscious and took ya back to da lodgin' house and raped ya. Judge believed every damn woid, coise. Why not? And I'se in here till I'se twenny one, den its off to da big pen foah me."  
  
Darby lowered her head, a convulsion over taking her. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know-I would never fathom that that spectacular bastard would do something like this. Never, ever--" Her laced fingers grew tighter.  
  
Suddenly, she felt Spot's fingers searching her hands. She raised her head. "What are you doing?"  
  
His good eye glimmered with determination until his grasp came to a halt, and Darby felt her breath sharply bate in her throat.  
  
His eye shifted to her and it seemed as though it was piercing her immortal soul. His palms had come to a rest on her left hand.  
  
Darby's eyes widened as she feverishly shook her head. "No, no, don't."  
  
Spot pulled away from the flap, rupturing Darby's hold as he roughly took her left hand in his grip.  
  
"No, Spot, don't!" she cried in a strained, tear-infected voice, desperately trying to pull away.  
  
Yet, his battered hands were strong and in a quick motion, he had pulled her immaculate white glove off, the atrocious diamond of the ring glittering violently in the soft light of the lantern.  
  
Darby bowed her head, the sobs overpowering her as she fell to her knees, her hand falling easily out of his lax grip. "I'm sorry-I'm sorry--"  
  
"Why in Christ's name are you apologizing?"  
  
Darby raised her swollen eyes skyward to see Spot's hand pushing open the flap.  
  
"Give me your hand," he said in a fierce voice.  
  
"Why?" she cried in reluctance, staring up at the flap.  
  
Spot once again had his visage pressed against the hole, his green eye gleaming against the pitch black of the socket.  
  
"Just do it, Dahby," he said, softening his tone.  
  
With a choke and her eyes on her hand, Darby slowly raised her hand, where his cold grasp grabbed it. She felt the impossibly heavy band being slid off her finger and she opened her eyes marvelously wide just in time to see Spot's hand poised backwards, and as he released it, the ring sparkling fiercely as it took to the air, landing with a distant clatter at the end of the hall.  
  
"Oh, its still no use!" she exclaimed, rising to her knees once again.  
  
Darby's eyes burnt with a blue fire as she bore into Spot's gaze. "I still have to marry the bastard tomorrow! Tomorrow! As Saint Patrick's Church! The event of the century! All of New York's finest will be there. Spot, it's not that easy! You can't just slip the damn ring off my finger and say that I can't marry him! I have to! As far as my parents are concerned, he OWNS me now. Why the hell do you think I was allowed to visit you?" Darby slammed her fist against the warped door, causing Spot to retaliate from the flap. "Because he SAID I could! Tonight is my last night in the Rockwell estate. We already have a stunning opulent mansion all prepared for us." A bitter laugh escaped her throat. "Well, shall I say after the honeymoon. The wonderful honeymoon where he'll be able to rape me all he wants--"  
  
She broke off, once again the tears finding her eyes as she let her forehead rest upon the door. She felt his clammy palm find her cheek.  
  
"He ALLOWED you to come?" Spot asked incredulously.  
  
Darby wearily nodded her head, the splinters driving themselves into her brow. "Yes. He said in front of all our family that I should look into the eyes of the man that raped me." She raised her eyes to his. "But he of course has other motives. I wanted to wear black. Why the hell do you think I'm wearing red?"  
  
He somberly shook his head, pressing his cool flesh against hers.  
  
Darby desperately wish that the moment would last for eternity, yet it was harshly shattered whenever she heard the most awful sound under the sun manifest itself in her ears, echoing off the gleaming maroon hued wooden walls.  
  
"Oh, Darby? Darby, darling? Are you ready?"  
  
She immediately raised her head, snapping her gaze down the hall and then to Spot, his eyes wide.  
  
Trying to level, the fear that was swirling throughout her, Darby fell to her haunches, warily watching the hallway. And then he suddenly he appeared from around the corner, impeccable in his tweed overcoat and gleaming smile.  
  
David Van Wyck held his arms open as he approached Darby with his long strides, his teeth blinding. "Oh, my dear, dear Darby, I'm so sorry to have kept you this long with, with this monster. But my dear sweet girl, before you are married you need closure, and I daresay, but I think you have attained it."  
  
Darby turned away from his deceptively malicious eyes and to Spot. Her deep eyes quickly scanned his as she balanced the rusty, metal flap open. "I love you," she said rapidly under her breath. "I love you, I love you, I love you."  
  
David suddenly grabbed her hand, sharply pulling her to her feet. He clucked his tongue, shook his head, motioning to her ungloved finger, and vanished ring. "Darby girl, Darby girl, Darby girl how many more times must we go through this? That little ring cost me quite a bundle."  
  
Her eyes narrowed into slits of burning hate. "Don't you mean it cost your daddy a little bundle?"  
  
David compressed his eyes into thin lines, before hissing at her and brusquely stalking past her and down the hall to collect the ring.  
  
Knowing what little time she had to spare, Darby fell to her knees and pressed her forehead to the hole, her eyes gaze disappearing into his glittering green eyes. "I love you. I'll always love you, always remember that," she said breathlessly, before David reappeared and forcefully gripped her left hand, causing her to stumble as she rose to her feet. He passionately drove the ring onto her finger.  
  
"Come along, dove," he said lightly, yet his eyes remained malevolent.  
  
Darby arched a brow. "No."  
  
His deep umber eyes flashed, as he snaked his arms forcefully about her torso, causing the utter air to be drawn from Darby's lungs. "Yes, we really must be going."  
  
And with a flourish, he had turned, signaling at to the hulking guard with a curt nod of the head, and began to stride down the polished hall, the boards creaking under his weight, Darby screaming as though she were insane.  
  
"NO! NO! LET ME GO! LET ME GO!" A hot fire pulsated throughout every fiber in her body and she writhed furiously about, finally breaking out of his grasp when they had reached the stairs. Without even thinking, her chartreuse heels were clicking with a vengeance down the corridor, her bonnet loosening and fluttering to the ground. She halted only in front of Spot Conlon's unforgiving door, pulling open the flap, tears streaming down her cheeks.  
  
"I love you, Spot Conlon. I'll always love you," she sobbed.  
  
Spot reached his hands out of the rectangular hole and grasped her flushed cheeks, pulling her close. "I've always loved you," he gritted, before he feverishly pressed his lips against hers, the metallic taste of blood filling her mouth. Yet, this only made her more tempted and she held on until David Van Wyck's strong arm wrapped around her abdomen, rudely breaking away the embrace, stealing the air from her. He held her in a grip of the purest iron as he pulled her down the hallway in the stormiest of gaits, her professions of adoration being obliviated only when the brutal guard slammed the heavy door, severing her from Spot Conlon.  
  
***  
  
The dress was spectacularly immaculate, a shade to rival the veils of snow that fell outside in the dark sky. It had indeed been purchased from the same tailor in Paris who had conjured the exquisite peach dress.  
  
The wedding gown was hanging neatly on the back of a chair, as Darby Rockwell sat amongst the layers of the voluptuous bedding staring at the wretched thing with absolute loathing.  
  
She cast her eyes from the gown once more to the gleaming blade she held in her hand, running her fingers over the piercing ridges. She experienced a prick and cried out in pain, raising her left ring ringer to reveal tiny droplets of blood.  
  
She glanced from the dress to the blade, from the blade to the dress.  
  
At this particular moment, she fancied that hysterical young people should not be toting about fatal weapons.  
  
She caressed the bejeweled hilt, her psyche an absolute train wreck of thoughts. She tightly grabbed the hilt and raised the blade.  
  
There was a soft rap at the white door. "Darby, are you still awake?"  
  
It was Ava.  
  
With a disgusted exhalation, Darby tossed the blade to the plush carpeting, where it gleamed in the moonlight.  
  
Her mother must have been content for the soft click of her shoes disappeared down the hallway.  
  
Darby settled herself into the goose-down bed, morbid notions encircling her mind.  
  
Why the hell was suicide so utterly difficult? It wasn't for Romeo and Juliet.  
  
Yet, wedding David Van Wyck wouldn't be suicide. It would be homicide. 


	14. Epilogue

Note from Author: By my book, this is the last chapter of the story. Please read, review, and enjoy-  
  
EPILOGUE  
  
The note was small, insignificant, nearly undetectable in the voluptuous bedding of the goose-down bed. It was a maid that found it, as she came to rouse Darby Rockwell on the morning of her wedding. Yet the maid found no Darby, only the note. Her cries stirred the rest of the household, who readily came running to the room. Mrs. Rockwell was in her satin nightgown, her shiny face void of cosmetics, brown hair in curlers. Mr. Rockwell was in his pinstriped pajamas and graying hair all askew.  
  
It was he who picked up the note cautiously from the bed for Mrs. Rockwell nearly fainted as she saw her daughter had up and vanished, and lo she did faint after Mr. Rockwell had concluded the reading.  
  
It was a simple piece of white stationary with a spectrum of colors of wild roses on the borders and the name Darby Rockwell at the top. It was folded over only once, and as Mr. Rockwell opened it, he knew instantaneously that is was his daughter's scrawling script. He read, his pitch no more than a murmur and his ice eyes squinted:  
  
Dearest Mother and Father,  
  
As you are reading this note, I know that you are in a state of great distress. Oh, of course you are wondering where between Empyrean and Hades I can be, but you careless for my actual being than you do of the spectacular amount of capital that you are due to receive due to the union of David Van Wyck and I. No, you don't have to bother searching about the room or the grounds of the estate, I won't be there. Neither shall you find my frost-covered corpse dangling lifelessly from my balcony with one of my bed sheets about my neck, although the thought did cross my mind more than once.  
  
No, you see I am gone. Yes, gone. And if everything falls into place as planned, I fancy that you shan't see me ever again. That notion, of course would not bring any impossible sorrow or despair to me. You see, Mother and Father, you are I are completely different people. You were born and conditioned to be one of the elite of the high class, yet I despise the high class with the utmost passion. Of course I always thought it grand when I was little to prance about in opulent cloths and covered in glittering diamonds and drive along in carriages, looking out and seeing starving children on the streets and sticking my nose up at them for I reckoned that I made them jealous. Alas, somewhere in my upbringing we parted ways most tragically. Oh, I still of course was your daughter, pretty little Darby Rockwell, daughter of John and Ava and I put on a masquerade that I delighted in all the parties with your wealthy friends.  
  
But, you see, inside I was crumbling.  
  
I knew that I was not like you. The only person I loved in the world was Katrina Van Witt when it should have been my mother and father. But how could I when all I felt as resentment and revilement when I heard you scrutinizing the Van Witts. And it was then that I began to wish that I were the daughter of a poor beggar man than daughter of John Rockwell, all- powerful attorney.  
  
Of course, my destiny to marry David Van Wyck did not aid in my liking the upper class anymore. I declare, but I have never met a more despicable, odious bastard than he. Is your hair curling yet, Mother? Words cannot express the misery and pain that I suffered on his behalf, yet I took all his remarks of early impregnation with a bit tongue and said nothing more. Yet, a something infected me. An infection that began with I most agreeably tossing that apple pie in his awful face and ending now.  
  
And that infection was a newsboy named Spot Conlon. Yes, Mother a newsboy. And what else can I say but I fell in love with him? Fell absolutely, impossibly stark head over heels for him. I, Darby Rockwell, David Van Wyck's fiancée pranced about town with a newsboy, experiencing the most breathtaking times of my life with him.  
  
And I ask you now, how could you possibly ask me to sacrifice something that strong just so I can be utterly miserable the rest of my days so that you can lead happy content lives when you are old and senile-and I do declare but those days are not too far away.  
  
No, I gave myself to the newsboy and David Van Wyck transformed it into an ungodly charge of rape when it had to be the greatest surge of over- powering, wonderful emotions that I have ever felt. And if Mommy is the one reading this and she is shaking her head and denying it, may I put it in blatant terms for you? I fucked the newsboy. Is your hair very curled now, Mommy? And I would have never changed it for the world.  
  
Alas, Davey boy got him locked up in the House of Refuge and I of course balled my eyes out like an idiotic wreck. And it was only last night when I was sobbing and lamenting my Spot and had the bed sheet tied in a noose ready to hang myself when I guess you could call it nothing short of a revelation struck me. I did not have to marry David Van Wyck. Why, I actually had a choice, did I not? I had scampered through the wrought-iron gates may times before without your knowledge, so why should this time be any different.  
  
I was absolutely elated at my breakthrough that was so marvelously simple that I felt idiotic for not discovering it sooner.  
  
Yes, you see, if all goes well I will aid Spot Conlon in escaping from the House of Refuge. Oh, I'm sure the real criminals to it everyday and I shall have help-what guard would not be distracted by a beautiful girl crying hysterically why the other steals his keys? Hopefully, it will be that simple and Spot will be free and we can escape together.  
  
You of course will probably scoff and say how can poor little Darby girl make it all on her own in the big city with a filthy newsboy as a mate? Well, I daresay, Daddy, but when you talk to Mommy should be a little bit quieter about it. Did you really think that I didn't hear she and you talking heatedly one day outside my room while you most likely though I was asleep about the firm and your involvement with the Mafia? And how you got so frightened that they were going to take all your capital away that you divvied it down the median and placed it all in Mommy and my names? Oh, you silly man. As you are reading this now I most likely have taken my rightful share of the money for all the misery you have caused me and the newsboy is my side and we are probably on a boat to France. Oh, I have always wanted to visit France. Don't worry, Mommy, I will send you a postcard when we are wed and have out first child. But do not fret, it won't be for a few years.  
  
It saddens me from the deepest abysses of my heart to leave poor Davey boy at the alter, but I am sure that Airabella Arnside will suit him perfectly and since she is such a cold bitch she will enjoy the hotness of hell, as of course Davey is Satan. Please tell me you knew this.  
  
Well, it is best that I am going. Tell Davey boy that Spot and I send our love.  
  
Well, Ava, John. Adieu, sweet evil stepparents, adieu.  
  
Yours,  
  
Darby Lynn Rockwell (Conlon)  
  
***  
  
He stood listlessly, leaning against the weatherworn slate bricks of the First Federal Bank, inhaling quietly on a cigarette, his charcoal gray cap tipped over his features, one foot propped flat against the façade.  
  
He cocked his head up only when he heard the faint clearing of a throat. She had exited the building, her expensive purse now considerably larger, and her smile considerably broader.  
  
She looked stunning in a vermilion ensemble and she picked up her pace, as he took the cigarette out of his mouth and flicked it to the ground, snubbing it out, and matching her strides.  
  
"Did ya git it?" he asked, keeping his vision straight ahead.  
  
She only nodded, her smile growing, "Couldn't have been easier."  
  
"So now what da hell ya gonna do?" he inquired. "I'se a crim'nal and you'se a crim'nal foah helpin' me 'scape."  
  
She shrugged, keeping her head straight. "I don't know. Perhaps go to France."  
  
He regarded her incredulously. "Jesus Christ-France."  
  
"You of course will be going with me. Don't worry. Your reign as the fearless leader had to end sometime. Just allow Whitie to take your position," she said simply.  
  
"Whitie? Whitie Wilson? Jesus Christ," he broke into disbelieving laughter.  
  
"No, really. I think Whitie will make a good leader. He can be called-the Drunken Leader of Brooklyn."  
  
"Oh, Christ!" His laughter became more audible as they passed the cathedral.  
  
"Don't even," she said sharply.  
  
"What? Did I say anyt'ing. Jesus-France."  
  
"Why not? It's the city of love."  
  
"Jesus, ya really love a romantic endin'."  
  
"What girl doesn't? Besides, you are missing the sunset and horse. And if we don't want to get caught we have to buy the boat tickets right away."  
  
"Whatever ya say," he said, abruptly halting and dropping his hand to her arm, stopping her and causing her to stumble and elicit a cry, before he pressed his split lips to hers. She struggled to stay balanced during the feverish kiss, as the heel of her fantastically expensive heel had snapped in two.  
  
THE END 


	15. ThankYou's

Here's the part where I just get to sob all over myself because I actually finished a story. And of course I have to thank all the lovely people that reviewed:  
  
Rhapsody, Kathryn Mason-Sykes, Stage, Ali, Falco Conlon, Morning Dew, Matriaya, Cards, Colleen, Raider, :-), Derby, Fire Ice, Rumor, Gypsy, Emerald Tears, Iris, CiCi, Fearless, PinkLabRat, Alison224, Mist, Lange, Sundreams, Saara, Blue Hag, Rae Kelly, Kaley, SwedishGirl, Jo, Singah, Anonymous, Navi, Lama-ks, Sakura-Blosson16, and Dragon.  
  
I love all the people that reviewed my story very much and all of those who didn't!  
  
Well, forgive me for any insanity, but I do declare that's what I am at the moment.  
  
Always,  
  
Butterfly 


End file.
